


Madame Tullerie's Love Potion #5

by The_Real_Fenris



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dancing, Dubious Consent, F/M, Flower Crowns, Fluff, Fuck Or Die, Grey Warden Stamina, Heavy Angst, Humor, M/M, Master/Pet, Outdoor Sex, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Secret Marriage, Sexual Slavery, Smut, Swordfighting, Threesome - M/M/M, Venatori
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4836848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Real_Fenris/pseuds/The_Real_Fenris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing series of one-shots with the premise of "DO IT OR DIE". </p><p>Chapter titles include the pairings, so feel free to check them if you're looking for a particular pairing. Most stories so far are on the fluffy/humorous side, but if there's a warning in the summary for dark/angst or rape elements I am not kidding.</p><p>Tags will change as we go along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fenris/Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for [pixievhenan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pixievhenan/pseuds/pixievhenan), who asked for "something where the only person that can help Fenris is Anders, for whatever reason."
> 
> Humor/smut. NSFW.

Fenris silently cursed Hawke for the tenth time since the mage had lit the fire.

They were camping on the Wounded Coast again. Fenris hated this place. Fenris hated everything. But more than anything he hated the man who sat beside him. The mage. Anders.

Mostly he hated the Wounded Coast for its past history. Its landscape was stippled with slavers’ caves. He’d even been in one recently – once they’d finally tracked down his master’s old apprentice, Hadriana. Where Fenris had gotten a hard-on as he plunged his ghost fist into the bitch’s chest and crushed her wicked heart. And then, after, in a lust-and-rage-fueled celebration, he’d let Hawke bed him.

Which – in hindsight – had been a stupid ass thing to do.

Fenris respected Hawke. Truly, he did. But that didn’t mean that having sex with him had been a good idea. Everyone knew what Hawke was like. Charming, funny and handsome, yes, but he’d fuck just about anything that moved. Varric joked about Hawke’s prowess often. And if that wasn’t proof enough, any time business brought them to the Blooming Rose, the whores would smile fondly and call Hawke by name.

 _All_ the whores – male and female.

So when Hawke had announced that he and Isabela were going to “go scout out the area,” Fenris knew that was a euphemism. The only thing that Hawke was going to scout out was the pirate woman’s panties.

Assuming that Isabela even wore panties. Fenris sort of doubted it.

Fenris was mostly fine with Hawke having sex with Isabela. After all, it had been Fenris who decided that they were going to call it off. It wasn’t as if the man owed him anything. No, the problem was that this meant that he’d been left alone at camp with Anders.

Anders, whom he hated. With every elven bone in his body.

In the silence, he brooded.

As Fenris brooded beside him, Anders poked at the fire with a stick. Mostly he was thinking about Hawke and Isabela. Of course he’d noticed the glances exchanged between them, the coy smiles, and the way they kept finding excuses to brush up against each other. A hand here. An arm there. A thigh. Hawke’s big hands suggestively around Isabela’s hips as he helped hoist her up some steep, rocky terrain. And now they were off somewhere – probably half-naked in the sand by now – which meant that Hawke would probably be coming by the clinic in a week to ask Anders to cure some sexually transmitted disease. Which also meant that he’d be stuck here alone with Fenris for at least another half hour.

As he continued to prod the fire, Anders studied the quiet elf. Andraste’s knickerweasels, Anders hated him. Sometimes, Anders had to resist the urge to blast his skinny elven ass into tomorrow with one of his spells. Fenris was such a bad-mouthed, brooding little prick, always ready to cut Anders down with his sharp little tongue. Which is why Anders completely hated himself for finding the elf attractive.

Seriously, though – with that strangely white hair that was too long so he had to keep brushing out of his gorgeous green eyes, that sexy curve of his smirking mouth, and the mystery of that lithe, lean body always hidden under all that tight leather and hard armor – well, it was hard not to notice how sexy he was. If Anders could have, he would have had a brood of fucking broody babies in Fenris’ honor.

It was these unwanted thoughts – and the dreadful boredom he felt – that prompted Anders to finally speak. “Fenris? It will probably be a while before they return. So why don’t we –?”

Fenris cut him off before he could complete the question with a glare and a rather brusque, “No.”

Anders sighed inwardly. Though he wasn’t really surprised, as the elf lately had been more grumpy than usual. “Well, how about –?”

Again, the word issued forth, hard, sharp and cutting as a sword’s blade. “No.”

Anders poked the fire again as he worried his bottom lip with his teeth.“Well, what if we just –?”

“No.”

Maker, this elf was exasperating. For a moment, Anders silently fumed. Yes, they didn’t like each other, but... was there any harm in playing cards? Or in permitting him to offer some other diversion to pass the time? Really?

He knew that antagonizing Fenris was a terrible idea, but he just couldn’t help himself. And given how quickly Fenris was shooting him down, he didn’t mince words.

“Sex?”

One well-chosen word. That’s all it took to cause Fenris’ body to become rigid. Hands clenching into fists. Eyes wild and fierce. Fenris stared at him, his expression painted with shock, and tinged with disbelief. “What?!”

Feigning indifference, Anders shrugged. “It would help pass the time.”

Anders had never seen Fenris like this. So livid with rage that he could barely speak. “Sex...?” he finally managed to sputter out. “With... with _you?”_

Strange how much he was enjoying this. Still feigning indifference, Anders casually tossed off his next words. “Do you see anyone else here?”

Apoplectic. That really was the only word to describe how Fenris became at Anders’ suggestion. A vein throbbed dangerously in his temple as his skin paled. “I can’t believe you’d want...” He trailed off, then he swallowed so hard that Anders caught the motion of his Adam’s apple as it bobbed up an down. “You..?”

It was as if Anders had become detached from himself. Despite knowing that the broody elf was most likely going to kill him, he tossed off, as casual as ever, “Why wouldn’t I?”

That vein in his temple throbbed again. It was a wonder it didn’t burst. In fact, the way Fenris was quivering with rage, Anders wouldn’t have been surprised if the elf literally exploded. He could even picture the camp after: covered with lyrium elf dust. Shimmery.

“Because,” Fenris growled, enunciating every word. “You. And. I. Hate. Each. Other.”

“So?”

Fenris had a thought. He and Anders had known each other for three years, and, in all that time, Anders had never shown any sign of interest in him. He wondered if the mage were just fucking with him. “You never said anything before.”

Anders fiddled with the stick, scratching in the dirt with it. “Frankly, I didn’t think you went with men,” he answered honestly. “At least not until Hawke sort of accidentally let it slip that you’d slept together. You don’t exactly flaunt your preferences.”

The mage was _not_ fucking with him, then. His offer of sex was real – which was infinitely worse. For the tiniest fraction of a second, Fenris wondered who’d bottom.

_The mage, obviously._

Ugh. Now Fenris wanted to scour his brain to get _that_ image out of it.

He heaved a sigh of frustration. “I... this is disturbing. Just...” Fenris’ eyes narrowed at Anders as he hissed out an audible growl. “Another word out of you and I will kill you.”

Anders didn’t say another word that night.

***

However, once that image was in Fenris’ head, it wouldn’t go away. Like a terrible rash.

***

A week after their return from the Wounded Coast, Fenris went to the Hanged Man.

Fenris hated the Hanged Man. Fenris hated everything. But he hated the Hanged Man more when he was drinking there alone, so he was slightly disappointed when he didn’t find Isabela at her usual perch at the bar.

 _Probably off spreading her legs for Hawke,_ he thought, though not unkindly. _Or some sailor. Or any man not too drunk to get it up._

Varric, however, was in his rooms in the back.

The dwarf smiled warmly at him as he looked up from his parchments. “You go ahead and start without me, Broody. I just need to finish this scene in the new book I’m writing.”

Despite knowing that it was always a bad idea to ask what Varric was writing, Fenris did it anyway.

“It’s called _Pixie Heart._ A romance between star-crossed lovers. Except, at the beginning of the story, they hate each other. But hate eventually turns into love...”

Fenris listened with patient indulgence as Varric blathered on and on about his book. Then, in a lull in the monologue, he quickly grumbled something about the swill waiting for him at the bar and slipped out.

Nursing his drink, alone at one of the tables, Fenris was soon joined by two of the city guard. They sat down at his table, uninvited.

This happened quite a bit whenever he was alone. Because Aveline was so loved by her men, and so grateful to Hawke for his hand in her becoming Guard Captain, the guardsmen were friendly not only to Hawke, but all of companions, as well. Which is the reason why Fenris preferred to do all his “alone” drinking back at Danarius’ mansion, where he couldn’t be bothered.

Still, he didn’t quite have the heart to tell them to piss off and leave him alone. Especially since they were so enthusiastic in their praise of Aveline. Fenris may have cherished his quiet time, but he didn’t want his behavior to reflect badly on Hawke or Aveline.

Shit, he wished Varric would hurry up and get out here.

Then one of the guardsmen – Bryce, was it? – glanced over Fenris’ shoulder. “Hey... isn’t that the Champion?”

Of course Fenris looked. His back was to the door of the Hanged Man, though, so he had to turn completely around in his chair. So he didn’t see as the other guardsman – Rohan, maybe? – quickly unstoppered a small vial and poured its contents into Fenris’ drink.

The man who had just entered was tall and dark-haired, but wasn’t Hawke. Fenris turned back around in his chair with a shake of his head. Reached for his glass.

And drank.

The guardsmen’s eyes became cunning slits as they watched him. Like predators, waiting for the prey to fall, weakened from blood loss.

The effects came on quickly. First, Fenris felt his stomach grow warm. Then his head grew light. Next, he felt a strange, needy ache growing inside him. And in his tight leathers, the discomfort of his hardening cock, bent completely out of shape. He only barely remembered that it would be inappropriate to adjust himself in public.

He didn’t know what his expression was doing, but it caused Bryce to chuckle darkly. “Looks like it’s working.”

Rohan seized Fenris by the elbow, hauling him up out of his chair. “Come with us,” he murmured with a sneer. “You’ll be getting what you deserve for what you did to Captain Jeven.”

 _Jeven..._ shit, they were Jeven supporters. Obviously still loyal to the previous Guard Captain, despite his disgrace – and death at Hawke’s hands. Fenris was vaguely aware that he was fucked when he found himself unable to resist as they manhandled him up from the table and towards the door. Worse – the feel of their hands upon him were making him quiver with unbridled lust.

Only at this point did he realize that they must have slipped... something... into his drink.

They were nearly at the door when Fenris found the strength to resist. To flare the lyrium in his markings. With a screech he plunged a hand into one man’s chest.

Blood sputtered and spattered as Fenris tore out his still-beating heart.

A tumult ensued. Noise. Shouting. Chairs scraping back. As Bryce’s body tumbled to the ground, Rohan jumped back, scrambling for his weapon.

Fenris staggered. Flared his lyrium again as Rohan charged, aiming to thrust his sword straight through Fenris’ chest. Fenris just barely managed to sidestep his death, then thrust his hand into the guardsman’s chest.

As Rohan fell, Fenris’ markings sizzled out, and, weakened, he dropped to his knees.

A few seconds later, Varric – who’d come running at the ruckus – was peering down into his face. “Broody. You okay?”

Maker, this _feeling._ Like his whole body was on fire. He managed to gasp out, “They slipped something... in my drink... poison... something...”

Varric’s eyes widened. “Shit, Broody.”

“Need... the mage...”

Varric faltered. Never in a million years would he have expected Fenris to admit that he needed Anders. For any reason. Even if a wyvern were chewing Fenris’ arm off, Varric had always doubted that the elf would ask Anders for help.

And then it clicked. The elf had mentioned poison. No time to waste, then. Varric quickly searched the bodies of the fallen men. He found the empty vial and tucked it away in a pocket before turning back to Fenris. “I’ll get you there safely, Broody. Let’s go.”

***

They crossed through Darktown to Anders’ clinic, where Varric beat furiously on the door.

Long moments ticked by. Then, finally, they heard a familiar voice grumbling as footsteps grew louder. Then the door swung open to reveal Anders, wearing a sloppily tied dressing gown, the corners of his lips turned down, his hair a loose mess, down around his face. “For Andraste’s sake!” he groused, but then became silent as he recognized his callers.

“Blondie,” Varric said gravely, “we have a problem.”

Anders didn’t stop to question why Fenris and Varric were here. Anything that brought Fenris here had to be serious. Opening the door wider, he stepped back to allow them in.

Once he’d closed the door, he turned to consider them. Varric was more solemn than usual, but seemed fine. Fenris, on the other hand...

“What happened?”

Varric withdrew the vial from his pocket, holding it out. “Somebody put this in Fenris’ drink. And now...”

Varric shrugged, glancing at the elf.

Something was definitely wrong with Fenris. He was trembling all over. Green eyes wide, all pupil. And he was panting, his chest heaving with every breath. Fingers clenched into fists, close to his sides.

Anders had a strange suspicion. A suspicion which was confirmed when he sniffed at the vial that he’d plucked from Varric’s hand. “Andraste’s ass, this is Madame Tullerie’s Love Potion #5.”

Varric’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re shitting me.”

Anders cocked his head. “You know I’d never shit you, Varric, and... wait. You’re familiar with this potion?”

“I’ve heard of it, sure. A powerful aphrodisiac. Some people call it ‘Fuck or Die.’”

Fenris whimpered.

Anders thought. If Fenris had drunk the entire vial, then... well, no wonder he was a quivering mess. The mage also knew that this elixir affected races differently. It was meant for humans. Qunari were hardly affected at all. Dwarves also had some resistance. But elves... well, it was extremely potent, and sometimes even lethal.

Already turning to his work table, Anders spoke over his shoulder. “You should go, Varric.”

Varric’s look was skeptical. “Blondie?”

“I think I can fix this,” Anders said. “At the very least, I can lessen the effects.”

Varric hesitated for a moment, clearly debating, Then he sighed. “All right, Blondie. I’ll trust you to fix this.”

The door clicked shut behind Varric, leaving Fenris alone with the mage.

“Just give me a few minutes, Fenris,” Anders said, already turning to his worktable, and sorting through the various packets of herbs and other ingredients in his collection.

Fenris tried to keep at a distance. The effects of the elixir had kicked in hard. His body was ablaze with lust. His dick was so hard it hurt. He wanted... no, he _needed_ a release. And all he could think about was that image of the mage – pinned down beneath him.

_No... Must resist the mage.... must resist... must... resist..._

Except resisting was impossible. Not with the potion setting his body on fire and his libido into overdrive. And not with Anders so close to him, with his hair loose and silky-looking, and wearing nothing more than a flimsy dressing gown that revealed his bare calves – muscular, and covered with light blond hair – and part of his chest, all smooth, flat plains.

He knew it was the potion that was distorting his perception, but that didn’t change the fact that Anders was the sexiest fucking thing he’d ever seen.

He hated himself. But he couldn’t stop himself from crossing the room and reaching for the mage.

 _Elfroot,_ Anders was thinking. _I’ll throw some of that in. That should help calm him down._ Then the packet slipped from his fingers as Fenris’ hands clamped down hard around his waist, and the elf’s body was suddenly against his back. Not only that, but Fenris was grinding his hips against Anders’ backside. One particularly hard thrust pushed Anders forward, his own hips striking and jostling everything on the table. Clatter of glass as several of the bottles tipped over.

“What the fuck, Fenris?” Anders growled as he spun about.

Fenris panted out his response as he continued to press his hips up against the mage. “Need... hurts... ugh...”

Anders barely managed to pry Fenris off him by pushing at the elf’s chest with both of his hands. “That doesn’t mean you get to hump me like a dog!”

Fenris’ fingers dug in as he tried to reel Anders back to him. “Mage... I know you want me... just... _please.”_

It was almost painful to hear the amount of torment and desperation packed into that plea. For a moment, Anders actually felt _sorry_ for him. Hands on Fenris’ hips, Anders pulled the elf closer and then slid his thigh up in-between the elf’s.

The effect was immediate and gratifying. Fenris’ entire body shuddered as his hips pitched up against Anders’ thigh, making breathless noises as he came, right in his leathers.

 _Wow._ Anders noted with some shameful delight that Fenris’ face, post-orgasm – eyes closed, lips parted, without the perpetual angry sneer – was sexier than anything he’d imagined.

However, the respite was short-lived. Fenris’ fingers curled into Anders’ dressing gown. “More... please... _more._..”

Anders knew better. Truly he did. Taking advantage of Fenris in this state was a terrible idea. Once the potion had worn off, Fenris was most likely going to kill him in the morning. But when Fenris’ hands slithered under his robe, one hand sliding straight down between Anders’ thighs, Anders decided he didn’t _care_ if Fenris killed him.

Anders slept in a bed in the back room of the clinic. It was towards this room that Anders waltzed Fenris, stripping him out of his armor along the way. By the time they reached the bed, Fenris wore nothing but his tight black pants, which did nothing to conceal his erection.

Anders pushed the elf down to the bed. Then reached down to peel off Fenris’ pants.

He’d never seen Fenris without a shirt on before, much less naked. He’d always been curious about Fenris’ markings. For a moment he let his eyes follow the swirling patterns that covered nearly every inch of Fenris’ skin.

Impatient, suffering the agony of his _need,_ Fenris writhed, hips rolling. “Mage... _kaffas!_... do something!”

Of equal interest to Anders was Fenris’ cock. Flushed dark with blood, it strained up towards him, dragon-hide hard. It had to be painful. Fenris hissed as Anders put his hand around it, then let out a loud, uninhibited cry as Anders wrapped his lips around the head and softly sucked.

Fenris didn’t last long. Shouting what Anders presumed to be curse words in Tevene, Fenris came hard, hips off the bed, and fingers clawing the sheets.

And since he was feeling positively generous, Anders continued licking and sucking Fenris until the elf exploded again.

Anders leaned back, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand as he looked down at Fenris. Fenris, sprawled naked on his bed, chest heaving, cock still rock hard, all pale blue scars over velvety light tan skin over tight muscle. Seriously, battling with that big sword of his had kept the elf buff.

Andraste’s sword, they’d barely started and this was already the most fun he’d had in years.

Still...

“You know, this is becoming a bit one-sided,” Anders casually remarked.

Fenris tried to muster up a glare, but his sex face was too sexy, and he failed miserably. “You... are... immensely... infuriating.”

“I’m going to need some reciprocation,” Anders said. “If not, I will toss you out of the bed, and you can either wait for the potion to wear off on its own, or you have a heart attack.”

Fenris squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to think. Thinking was difficult. “Ugh. What do you want?”

“Suck it.”

This time Fenris did manage a glare. “I’m _not_ letting you put your filthy mage dick in my mouth.”

“I assure you that it’s clean,” Anders said lightly. “And, if you suck it nicely, I might let you fuck me after.”

A shiver coursed visibly down Fenris’ body.

Anders watched as Fenris internally struggled. To be honest, though, despite the fact that they were doing this didn’t mean that Anders hated him any less. In fact – in a sick, sadistic way – he was sort of enjoying Fenris’ torment. Feeling wicked, Anders decided to influence Fenris’ decision by reaching down and letting his hands trail teasingly over Fenris’ chest.

He was rewarded with Fenris’ soft gasps of pleasure as the elf writhed beneath him, trying to push himself up into Anders’ hands.

“Fine... _uh._..”

Smiling, Anders withdrew his hands. “All right, then. Get to it.”

With a growl Fenris shot up. Seized Anders with both hands. Lyrium flaring, he flipped Anders so that now the mage was on his back, below him on the bed. Anders watched with vested interest as Fenris slid down his body. Then hesitated a moment before taking Anders into his mouth.

Despite any initial reluctance on Fenris’ part to perform his act, he didn’t hold back. Shit, the elf was really good at this. He began by teasing Anders with delicate swirls of his tongue, moving slowly up and down his shaft, coating him with saliva before he finally began to lightly suck, drawing more and more of Anders into his mouth. Moaning lustily as he began to move his mouth up and down in a steady rhythm.

Anders watched as his cock disappeared in and out of Fenris’ mouth. Maker, he’d imagined this many times – though usually with Fenris on his knees before him. Even so, like this, it was _fantastic._

On second thought, by the way Fenris was moaning around him – the fact that the elf was clearly getting off on it, despite himself, made it even better.

_Totally worth Fenris killing me in the morning._

As Fenris continued to pleasure him, Anders slipped a hand down, letting his fingers sweep through Fenris’ hair. Then, as he was about to hit his peak, Anders tightened his grip in the white locks, effectively keeping Fenris there so that the elf was forced to swallow his spend.

When Anders released him, Fenris jerked back. “You... bastard...”

Anders smiled saucily. “You liked it.”

Fenris growled. Then reached for Anders, flipping him back over. Grabbed him by the hips and jerked him so he was now on his knees. Jabbing his hips forward, Fenris began to press in.

Anders yowled in protest. “Wait, wait, wait!” He tried to squirm away, but Fenris only tightened his grip on Anders’ hips. “You are _not_ going in dry, do you hear me? Try it, and I’ll blast you across the fucking room.”

Fenris, quivering, made a piteous, needy noise. But stopped his assault.

Anders reached for the balm that he – fortunately – kept near the bed. He used it for sore muscles, which meant that it had a slightly numbing effect. Which – in this scenario – didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

He didn’t quite trust the lust-sick elf to prepare him, so he backed up and did it himself.

Fenris whined like a dog as he watched Anders fingering himself. Maker, was he drooling? And then he was quivering uncontrollably again as Anders smeared a generous amount of grease all over Fenris’ shaft.

“All right,” Anders said as he set the balm aside. “I think I’m –”

The mage didn’t even get to finish his sentence because Fenris was suddenly all over him. Elf everywhere, pulling him into position again. Hands and knees – _of course._ Not that Anders really minded at this point. It had been an eternity since he’d been properly banged into a mattress. And he was immensely glad that he’d used that particular balm to cool things down because the elf, out of control with lust, didn’t go slowly.

Anders choked back a cry as Fenris slammed into him. Tightly gripped the sheets as Fenris thrust in again twice more. Then Fenris was shuddering against Anders’ back as he came again.

For a moment, Fenris, still buried deep in Anders’ body, became still, catching his breath. Which, fortunately, gave Anders’ body time to accommodate him, so when Fenris started moving again, it felt good.

Really, _really_ good. Warming up by a fire in winter good. Ice cream on a summer day good. Cuddling with Ser-Pounce-a-Lot good.

Anders moaned with abandon as Fenris filled him over and over. Unfurled his body so that his back was against Fenris’ chest. Curled an arm around so his hand could stroke the back of Fenris’ neck. In-between moans, Anders murmured. “Mouth.”

“What...?”

Taking matters into his own hands, Anders seized Fenris by the hair, twisting their heads around and laying claim on Fenris’ mouth. Moaning, Fenris enthusiastically returned Anders’ hot, sloppy kisses.

After a few minutes, Fenris came again, breath hot and brandy-scented as he cried out against Anders’ lips.

Thanks to Madame Tullerie, the elf was still hard as a Qunari’s horns and raring to go.

It was going to be a very long night.

Somewhere near dawn, Anders stared at the ceiling, considering the pleasant ache in his backside, as Fenris – who’d finally passed out after too many orgasms to count – snored softly beside him in his bed. Drawing the sheet up over them, Anders then extinguished the lantern beside the bed and lay back, closing his eyes.

Just before he drifted off to sleep, a familiar voice rang through his head.

_The elf is going to kill you in the morning._

With an aggravated sigh, Anders rolled over and pulled the sheet over his head, as if that could possibly block the Spirit out.

_Shut up, Justice._

***

Much to everyone’s surprise, Fenris didn’t kill him in the morning.

Eyes shifting everywhere but on Anders, Fenris slipped out of the bed and searched the floor for his pants. Once he’d pulled those on, he slipped on the tunic he wore under his armor. Realized that the rest of his outfit was probably still scattered in a trail from the other room.

Then he finally glanced at Anders, who had silently been watching from the bed, still moderately certain he was going to be murdered before breakfast.

The elf’s voice was gruff. “No one can know about this,” he said. “And it won’t happen again.”

“Understood,” Anders said gravely. “And, believe me, I won’t tell a soul.”

Fenris nodded briefly, then slipped out.

***

However, once that memory of his night with Anders was in Fenris’ head, it wouldn’t leave him in peace. Like one of Danarius’ hunters.

***

About a week after that, Anders saw Fenris again. Hawke had been talked into tracking down the Viscount’s son, which meant they were headed to the Wounded Coast. Again. Both he and Fenris pretended like nothing had happened between them. In fact, Anders managed to mostly not think about it, knowing that it wasn’t going to happen again.

Except a week later, he opened his door again in the middle of the night, to find Fenris there.

Trembling all over. Green eyes wide, all pupil. Fists clenched. And he was panting, his chest heaving with every breath.

“Some men...” Fenris muttered between rapid breaths. “At the Hanged Man... in my drink...”

Anders grabbed Fenris by the arm and dragged him inside. He was pretty sure that the elf wasn’t going to kill him this time, so he wasted no time in taking Fenris straight to his bed.

Anders thought that it was a strange coincidence that the elf had managed to get himself dosed with the same aphrodisiac by strangers in the Hanged Man, only two weeks apart. A very strange coincidence, yes, but stranger things had happened.

At least until Fenris showed up a third time, only one week later, in the very same state. Then he knew that these “strange men” at the Hanged Man that Fenris spoke of, didn’t really exist.

If it meant more nocturnal visits in the future, though, Anders was more than happy to pretend.

 


	2. Dorian/Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for NON-CON and some (mostly psychological) torture.
> 
> This chapter is for [Six_Lily_Petals](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Six_Lily_Petals/pseuds/Six_Lily_Petals), who said, "I've got a sick fantasy of Venatori Dorian capturing the Inquisition's Commander to be his own manservant, a war trophy of sorts." And then later added, "I want it to be happy for Dorian, _you can do whatever with Cullen."_
> 
> Lily, you know better than to tell me I can do "whatever" I want to a character. You get the blame for what happens to Cullen.
> 
> Dark/angst. NSFW. If you're here because you liked the story in Chapter 1, this story may not be for you.

_A present for you, Magister Pavus._

Dorian casts his attention down to the man on his knees on the marble floor of his vestibule. Studies him with interest. Southern. Blond hair. Hands bound. Clothes dirty and torn. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. Still, it doesn’t escape Dorian’s notice that the man is rather handsome.

_What’s this?_

_The Commander of the Inquisition’s forces,_ the cultist leader explains. _A reward from the Elder One. For the good work you’ve been doing in Tevinter. He knows your... tastes._

Knows and doesn’t care, Dorian supposes. He considers the man again. Both Livius and Calpernia have been kind enough to keep him updated about their efforts against the Inquisition, so Dorian knows a good deal about this Commander. Cullen Rutherford. Ex-Templar. The Lion of Ferelden.

Except now, unwashed, unarmed, and on his knees before the Venatori, he very much does not seem like a lion.

Dorian eyes the cultist leader with intent. _And what, precisely, have you been doing with him?_

The cultist’s lips twist like snakes. _He’s learned not to resist._

***

He is taken away.

He doesn’t resist. No, Cullen submits himself to the hands of the elven slaves. He notes that they are all male, all pretty, with ribbons of gold and silver woven through their hair. As they move, silk clothes hide and reveal, hide and reveal.

They speak to each other in Tevene. They do not speak to him, except to give him orders he cannot comprehend.

Cullen is stripped of his clothing – the armor and his weapons were taken long ago, when he’d been captured by the Venatori during the battle at Adamant. Next he is dunked into a large, luxurious tub where his skin is scrubbed pink.

Elven hands towel him dry. He is perfumed. Oiled. Not only facial hair, but chest hair removed with an odd magical stone. Hair combed back. To wear he is given only a pair of black silk small clothes.

There is a looking glass in the bathroom. Cullen sees himself. His hands are empty. He is golden. He glistens.

A silent plea: _Maker, help me_.

They bring him to an office. Dark wood, old paintings, bright windows. Elven hands coax him down to his knees on a thick, colorful rug before a desk, behind which the man from before sits.

Cullen cannot fool himself. Slavery exists in Tevinter. This man now controls Cullen’s fate. Owns him.

As the slaves withdraw, the man behind the desk sets down his quill and studies Cullen for a long moment.

By the look in his eyes, Cullen knows what the man wants. Him.

Then the man smiles, a wry, dry thing. _We haven’t been formally introduced,_ he says in perfect King’s Tongue. _My name is Dorian Pavus. This is your first time in Tevinter, I presume._

He knows that name. Leader of the Venatori forces in Tevinter. If Calpernia is the right hand of the Elder One, then this Dorian Pavus is the left.

Cullen refuses to answer. Lets his gaze fall.

A moment later, he hears the soft shuffle of footsteps across the rug. Then Dorian is standing before him. A hand under Cullen’s jaw forces him to meet the cool gray eyes.

_Cat got your tongue, Commander Rutherford?_

A flare of anger surges within him. _If you are going to... take advantage, then... I’d rather you get on with it._

Dorian laughs. _You mean rape you? Oh, no. I’m not the sort of man who gets off on that. I will fuck you, though, but only when you beg for it._

Cullen wonders what sort of game this man is playing. To even suggest such a thing... _That will never happen._

A cold smile hovers around Dorian’s lips. _We’ll see._ Pausing, he studies Cullen again. His gaze falls to Cullen’s hand, noting the band of gold around his heart finger. _What’s this? A wedding ring?_

Cullen lowers his eyes again. He will not give the Venatori the opportunity to feast on his pain. He will _not_ think of her.

But he cannot pretend that she doesn’t exist. That he isn’t married to the most amazing woman he’s ever known. That he’d fallen immediately in love with her from the moment he’d first laid eyes upon her in Haven. That the happiest moment of Cullen’s life was when Mother Giselle had performed the ceremony for them outside of Skyhold, under the moons, in secret.

His Inquisitor. His Ellana.

Cullen thinks, _She will come for me._

For this belief, Cullen does what he must to survive.

The hand under his jaw clamps down hard, bruising his face, forcing his chin up again. Gray eyes sear his flesh like frost. Voice ice.

 _If you defy me, the petty torments those second-rate enchanters treated you to will seem like loving caresses compared to what_ I _can do to you. So. When I ask you a question, my pet, you answer. And you will call me ‘Master.’_

Cullen knows better than to trifle with this man. Not if he wishes to live long enough for the Inquisition to rescue him.

_Yes... Master._

***

She doesn’t come. The Inquisitor. Cullen’s beloved. His reason for living. His _wife._

Time passes. He learns that he is in the Gilded Quarter of Minrathous, where most of the nobility lives. He learns much about Venatori activity. Pavus makes no effort to hide even the most confidential or delicate operations from him, speaking often of these matters in Cullen’s native tongue. In fact, the magister keeps Cullen with him always. Makes Cullen sleep at the foot of his bed. Like a dog.

This is his entire existence: He is Dorian Pavus’ pet.

Hence, the leash.

Several times a week, Cullen’s master takes him to parties. Pavus delights in parading Cullen around.

His smile wicked on burgundy-stained lips as he tugs on the leash.

There is a language to the leash. Soft tugs, sharp snaps, in ones or twos. Cullen has been trained to respond. Only once – when the humiliation briefly seemed more than he could bear, and for which Cullen received his first taste of his master’s punishment – Cullen didn’t obey.

Now he does. Always.

One soft tug: _Come._

Cullen dutifully follows.

As they approach the three ladies, painted lips smile. Candlelight glitters off jewels, and their headgear is so elaborate that Cullen finds it a wonder that their necks do not break under the weight. They batter black eyelashes against white-powdered cheeks, and coo sycophantically in greeting. Then painted eyes turn with reptilian cunning to Cullen.

_Ooh. What a pretty thing, Magister Pavus._

_My new toy,_ Dorian says with pride. Then his gaze sweeps over Cullen. Calculating. Then, to the ladies: _Would you like a better look?_

Affirmation of lecherous grins.

Snap of leash. _They want to examine you, my pet. Do give them a show._

They are at one end of a crowded ballroom. Everyone can see them. At least fifty guests. Total strangers. Magisters, mostly. Venatori. Cullen is always surrounded by enemies.

If Cullen refuses, his master will punish him again.

The magister’s punishment reminded Cullen of the torments he’d suffered years ago in the Circle of Fereldan. Unbearable. Almost maddening.

With shaking fingers, Cullen plucks off his shirt. His eyes flick to his master.

 _Go on,_ Pavus says, in a way which is not encouraging.

Cullen unbuckles his pants and lets them fall, as heat rises to his face. _Why?_ he wonders. _Why is he doing this to me?_ He steps out of the pants. Eyes to his master.

_Go on._

Cullen slides down his small clothes.

There is a murmur in the crowd. Cullen does not turn around, but he knows that everyone in the room is looking at him.

Eyes caress his naked body. Then the hands of the women trail across his skin, exploring muscles, veins and bones.

Cullen distances himself from reality. Retreats into his mind. He is not standing naked among the enemy. Not being lewdly caressed by Tevinter mages. Instead, he is back in the little room over his office at Skyhold, Ellana in his arms, mouth tasting of plums, hands smelling of warm earth and elfroot.

 _This body,_ Cullen thinks, _this body is hers._

***

Dorian lightly taps Cullen’s lips with his folded-up fan. _Open._

This is the thing Cullen has come to loathe the most. Twice daily, his master doses him with an aphrodisiac. Something from Orlais. And every day, his master increases the dose by one drop.

After one week, Cullen remains in a perpetual state of low-grade arousal. When his master’s hand brushes over his shoulder, against his will Cullen quivers.

Gray eyes bore two holes of fire into his skin. Pavus licks his lips. _Do you want me to fuck you, my pet?_

No.

_No, Master._

Pavus continues to take him to parties. Only now, Cullen is beginning to tease out words that he knows in Tevene. There is much talk about the Venatori victories against the Inquisition. Trite propaganda. Twisted lies. In Minrathous, Ellana is referred to as _that uppity knife-ear bitch._ But Cullen has unshakeable faith in the Inquisitor.

 _She will come for me,_ Cullen thinks.

After two weeks, the brush of his master’s hand causes Cullen’s blood to rush. Pavus smirks smugly at Cullen’s erection as it strains against his small clothes. _Do you want me to fuck you, my pet?_

No. Yes. He doesn’t know.

_No, Master._

In this state, Cullen lies mostly awake in bed. One night – while he thinks his master is sleeping – Cullen succumbs to the desire to fulfill that need, and snakes a hand down between his legs.

He has barely begun touching himself when the sharp rebuke of Dorian’s fan slaps down. Cullen yelps and jumps, hand moving automatically to cover the stinging stripe across his ass.

Dorian’s eyes flash fiercely. _Bad dog!_

As punishment, Cullen is made to sleep with his wrists tied to the post at the foot of the bed.

After three weeks, Cullen is constantly hard. No respite. It is terrible.

Cullen shudders uncontrollably as Dorian’s hot breath roils in his ear. _Do you want me to fuck you, my pet?_

Yes.

 _Master..._ Cullen strains to maintain control. He succeeds only barely. _No, Master._

***

It is shortly after Cullen begins taking the love potion that Dorian brings a lover to his bed.

The man in question is young – an underprivileged _laetan_ who shares the magister’s tastes. He is the first of many.

The routine is the same. When his master brings a man to his room, Cullen is kicked out of his usual place at the foot of Dorian’s bed and relegated to sleeping on the floor.

Cullen does not sleep. Even if he does not look, he can still hear the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, the rhythmic creaking of the bed, followed by the thudding of the headboard against the wall, and the increasingly lusty moans of the men.

At first, Cullen is disturbed to be in the same room as two men rutting. He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes they will finish soon.

Later, it is different. Cullen lies on the floor, trying to ignore the throbbing need between his legs. Every moan his master makes feels like a tongue of flame tripping up his shaft. It is torture.

He squeezes his eyes shut. But he cannot block out the sounds that Dorian’s man of the evening is making.

_Uh huh huh. Uh huh huh._

Cullen rolls over in his nest of blankets. Opens his eyes.

On the bed, he sees them. The stranger on his back as Dorian, hovering above him, thrusts into him. Only that Dorian is not looking at the man below him. Instead his hazy gray eyes are fixed on Cullen.

Cullen hates his master. He hates himself more for finding the mage – all bronze skin over rippling muscle – desirable. Even though he knows it is the potion which colors his perception, Cullen still hates himself for the jealousy that gnaws at his insides each time his master fucks someone in front of him.

As much as Cullen wants to, he can’t tear his eyes away from the sight. Almost involuntarily, his hand wanders down towards his aching member. Half-afraid that his master will punish him for this infraction. But as Cullen strokes himself, his master only smiles slyly and fucks the man harder.

Cullen’s cock is so swollen that touching it is painful. And yet the need he feels for a release is overwhelming. Taking himself firmly in hand, Cullen ignores his shame, and jacks off while Dorian, still thrusting, watches.

Eyes locked, Cullen and his master come at the same time.

***

Cullen is going mad.

The need inside him is a tempest. Raging. Stealing his thoughts, his breath, his sleep. And yet Cullen resists. He refuses to give in. Refuses to speak the one word that will end his torment.

One morning, Dorian taps Cullen’s lips with his folded-up fan. _Open._

Cullen’s fingers curl into the thick plush of the carpet. Cullen weeps. _Please... have mercy._

Unmoved, Dorian crosses his arms as he stares down at his pet. Then he heaves an impatient sigh. _You’re doing this to yourself, you know. All this needless suffering. Really – it’s rather undignified._

Hot tears streak down Cullen’s face, clinging to his jaw briefly before falling to his lap. _Just... command me to do it and I shall._

_No._

The unexpected harshness of that word causes Cullen’s gaze to jump up. He’s never seen the man so angry before. _Master...?_

 _My father..._ Dorian trails off, bubbling bitter laughter. _He taught me that real men do not use their slaves for sex. That they do not use blood magic. That we must fight our political battles with diplomacy, not bloodshed._

Cullen stares up at him _I... your father sounds like a good man._

_He was. The best man I have ever known._

There. Something Cullen has never seen in his master before: true emotion. _Then... why? Why do you fight with the Venatori? Your father couldn’t possibly approve of what they’ve done!_

Dorian’s voice is hollow. _My father is dead._

Cullen blinks.

 _Rivals murdered him. So I inherited his seat. I sought revenge, but... they were too powerful. They nearly killed me._ Dorian’s gaze, distant, now focuses on Cullen. _The Elder One promised me revenge. Now I am his._

This man... there is a scrap of decency in him. Cullen clings to that hope. _You could leave the Venatori. Join the Inquisition. The Inquisitor could –_

Dorian’s fan comes down. Hard. Slaps the words right out of Cullen’s mouth.

_Now. Open._

Cullen opens his mouth.

Into Cullen’s mouth, Dorian vindictively pours the entire vial of Madame Tullerie’s Love Potion #5.

***

Dorian waits. Watches. The potion works quickly. In only a few moments, Cullen – still on his knees – is literally shaking with need as he clings to his own arms. On his small clothes, there is a burgeoning wet spot where his cock is leaking.

_Do you want me to fuck you, my pet?_

Cullen is in agony. Consumed. There is no other answer anymore.

_Yes, Master._

Pleased, Dorian chucks Cullen under the chin with his fan. _Beg for it._

Cullen swallows. _Please..._

_Please what?_

He can’t even feel shame anymore. _Please fuck me, Master._

Dorian considers him for a moment. _I suppose that will have to do,_ he says. _Now – get on the bed._

Cullen practically scrambles to obey his master’s command.

Cullen is lost. Lost in the delirium of sexual delights. Everything his master does to him sets fire to his blood, shoots sparks through his flesh, and robs him of all rational thought. He is truly a slave now, to the all-encompassing lust that drives him.

He moans indecently as Dorian threads fingers into his hair, pulling him in for a vicious kiss. Moans as Dorian sucks a bruise over the vein in his neck. Again as Dorian’s hands skim down his body, twisting nipples and wringing, through his small clothes, the first orgasm from his cock.

 _Take those off,_ Dorian orders. _Then get on your hands and knees._

With shaking fingers, Cullen pushes down his dirty smalls. Turns over and puts himself in the requested position. Hates himself for the lascivious sounds he makes as his master licks him from the base of his spine down to his balls and back again. Then gasps as Dorian shoves first one, then two oiled fingers inside him, spreading him open. Sliding them in and out.

Shameless, Cullen keens as his hips twitch back, trying to fuck himself on his master’s fingers. Then cries out loudly as his master’s fingers curl inside him and touch something wonderful.

 _Again..._ Cullen stammers. _More, Master... please... more._

He hates himself for begging for this. But then he is not thinking at all, blinded by a white-hot explosion behind his eyes as his master expertly fingers him to another climax.

Cullen, quivering, barely manages to keep himself from collapsing as Dorian withdraws from the bed. Momentarily, he returns, disrobed, his cock at half-mast, a phallic object – oiled, glistening, and slightly curved – in his hand.

Cullen quivers again as Dorian’s free hand falls upon his ass. _Open for me, my pet._

Cullen makes whimpering noises as his master inserts the phallus inside him. He should hate this unwelcome intrusion, but his body ignores his wishes, instead opening wide for the mage. He feels strangely full.

Finished, Dorian steps back to admire his handiwork. It wouldn’t be a terrible idea to keep his pet impaled this way at all times, ready for whenever Dorian wants to play with him.

Standing at the edge of the bed, Dorian seizes Cullen by the hair, guiding him to his crotch.

It’s obvious to Cullen what his master wants him to do. But he’s never done this before. Nor would he ever dream of asking his beloved Ellana to do such a filthy thing to him. Uncertain, he puts his mouth on Dorian’s cock and begins to tentatively suck.

Unimpressed and impatient, Dorian tightens his grip on Cullen’s hair and plunges his cock into the blond’s mouth.

Each thrust jolts Cullen back. Each time he feels the phallus shifting inside him, causing waves of ecstasy to roll through him, boiling his blood and rattling his bones. As his master’s cock stiffens in his mouth, Cullen moans.

 _Good boy,_ Dorian purrs when he finally pulls back. _I think I’ll fuck you now._

At this point, Cullen is completely inarticulate. He can only whimper as his master repositions him on his hands and knees at the edge of the bed. Gasps as Dorian removes the phallus from his ass. Cries out as Dorian seizes him by the hips and plunges in.

Being fucked by his master feels like Heaven. And when he comes again, it feels like dying.

And – _Maker help him_ – he never wants Pavus to stop.

***

In the following weeks, his master no longer brings other men to his bed. Instead, he seems content to play with his pet.

It is always rough kisses. Thrust of Dorian’s tongue in his mouth. Then filthy things. Cullen’s mouth has become intimate with every inch of Dorian’s body. Often he is made to pay homage to Dorian’s fine ass with his tongue. Or swallow down Dorian’s cock until he chokes. Dorian delights in marking his pretty throat with bruises. Delights in the wanton whimpers Cullen makes as Dorian bends in half and fucks him ruthlessly into the mattress until Cullen begs for a release.

After, it is always the same. Dorian sits in the bed, back against the headboard, with Cullen’s head in his lap. In one hand, Dorian holds either a book or a glass of wine, while the other sweeps gently through Cullen’s hair. Petting him.

Cullen does not know what he craves more: the savage way Dorian fucks him, or the tenderness in the touch of his hand after.

One night, he asks a question.

_Master? What do you want from me?_

The hand in his hair becomes still. Then Dorian hums thoughtfully. _Everything, my pet. To know that you are mine – body, heart and soul._

Cullen is silent. He doesn’t realize that he is as tense as a trebuchet’s winch until he feels his master’s hand sweeping through his hair again and the tension melts and swirls away. Even though his master has been steadily reducing the dose of the aphrodisiac, each time he touches Cullen, the ex-Commander’s response is purely visceral.

Cullen’s body is _his_ now.

But Cullen’s heart is hers.

And his soul he commends to the Maker.

***

More time passes.

Cullen loses track of the days. Then the weeks. He has been in Tevinter for several months, at least. He is becoming ever more complacent about his fate as a slave. He sometimes forgets what it’s like to be free.

This doesn’t actually surprise him. Once, while in Kirkwall – in a rare encounter – he’d stumbled across Fenris in a bar in Hightown. The elf was already deep in his cups – not only was it the anniversary of his escape from slavery, but he’d also just broken it off with the Champion – and thus uncharacteristically candid about his past.

When Cullen asked him why he hadn’t tried to escape sooner, he hadn’t really expected the elf to answer. But he’s never forgotten what Fenris said.

_Your master becomes your whole world. You live or die at his whim. All you can think of is pleasing him._

The ex-Commander now understands what Fenris meant. Slowly, gradually, Dorian Pavus is becoming his whole world. Living only by his whim. And Cullen, strangely, is becoming more and more consumed by the desire to please him.

Still, his heart belongs to her. His beloved. His Inquisitor.

News of her arrives one afternoon from an unexpected source.

Cullen is in what his master calls the lounge, sitting among silken pillows near the unlit fireplace, when one of the slaves escorts a man into the room.

He is tall, broad-shouldered. Long dark hair slicked back into a tail as meticulous as his fine-cut clothing. Sharp blue eyes in a vaguely ferret-like face. And – though, for the life of him, Cullen can’t recall where he’s seen the man before – somewhat familiar.

Dorian rises to clasp arms with his in greeting. _Livius, darling. So good to see you again._

The name jogs Cullen’s memory. Livius Erimond. The man who’d tried to raise a demon army at Adamant. The Inquisitor had stopped the ritual, but Erimond had escaped the fortress.

As Livius accepts a cordial and makes himself comfortable upon Dorian’s settee, his gaze falls on Cullen. A wicked smile curls his lips. _The Commander of the Inquisition,_ Livius drawls. _I was hoping you’d have him on display._

 _Anything for you, my dear Livius,_ Dorian says with a smile. _Now, what brings you back to Minrathous? I thought you were still fighting the Inquisition down south._

Livius’ expression darkens. _I bring news from the Elder One._

One of Dorian’s eyebrows cocks in surprise. _You could have just sent a bird._ As Livius’ expression becomes more grim, Dorian asks, _What is it?_

 _The fucking Inquisition. They destroyed the bulk of the Elder One’s forces in the Arbor Wilds. And that knife-eared bitch –_ she’s _the one who drank from the Well of Sorrows._

Dorian mutters a curse.

Then his eye falls on Cullen.

Cullen understands. His Ellana has thwarted the Elder One. The Inquisition is _winning._ Cullen feels a lightness bubbling up inside him. It’s been so long that he almost doesn’t recognize what it is.

Hope.

 _When the final battle is over,_ Cullen thinks, _she_ will _come for me._

There is an involuntary manifestation of Cullen’s hope. Dorian sees it – the way his eyes illuminate, the quickly swallowed twitch of a smile. And telling – oh, so very telling – the way his thumb rubs over his wedding ring.

Dorian is not pleased.

Cullen’s gaze flicks innocently up at his master, who now stands before him. Dorian holds out a hand. Quite mildly, he gives Cullen his command. _The ring, please._

For a moment Cullen stares at him, puzzled. Then understanding dawns.

Cullen does not want to give up his wedding band, but disobeying his master in unthinkable.

Cullen tugs on the ring.

Time was not a luxury in the early days of the Inquisition. They had married in a hurry. In fact, they were lucky that they had been able to find rings at all, even though they didn’t match – which, actually, helped them keep their marriage a secret. But Cullen’s ring is a bit too small. Tight enough where he can’t quite force it past his knuckle.

After watching Cullen struggle for a moment, Dorian heaves an impatient sigh. _Give me your hand._

Cullen obeys.

Dorian places Cullen’s hand flat on the table. Gives the ring an experimental turn. _I suppose we’ll need some oil or something to remove it,_ he says thoughtfully. _Or, we could just..._

Dorian trails off. Then reaches one hand towards his belt.

It happens so fast that it doesn’t quite register in Cullen’s brain what his master has done until it’s too late. Not until Dorian wrenches the silver serpent-hilt dagger he wears at his belt free from where he’s just embedded it in the wood, and blood jets from the stump where Cullen’s heart finger used to be.

From Cullen’s throat, strange, wheezy noises emerge as his master casually picks up the amputated finger, which he then tosses to Livius.

 _Here, Livius,_ Dorian says with a cruel smile. _A present for the Inquisitor._

_***_

Later, Cullen lies in bed, his head in his master’s lap. His hand, beneath the pristine white bandage, throbs and aches, throbs and aches.

It is silent in the room except for the occasional whisper of paper sound as Dorian turns a page, turns a page.

Despair is a chain that rests tightly around his throat, always threatening to choke, threatening to choke.

Then he feels his master’s hand as it tenderly filters through his hair, filters through his hair.

Cullen melts into his touch.

Everything is all right again.

***

_A present for you, Magister Pavus._

Curious, Dorian accepts the small, oblong wooden box. With elegant fingers, he flicks open the latch. Lifts the lid. Looks inside.

 _I see,_ Dorian says.

The cultist makes a subservient little bow. _The Elder One thought that a man of your magical skill would be able to make good use of this._

Dorian closes the box. Then, once he’s dismissed the Venatori agent, he heads back to the veranda where he’d been breaking his fast. Where Cullen awaits him at the table.

Dorian sets the box down upon the table. Eases gracefully back down in his chair as he picks up his teacup again and briefly studies the Breach that has recently reappeared in the sky. Then he considers the man sitting across from him.

Cullen Rutherford. Ex-Templar. Ex-Commander of the Inquisition. Husband of the blessed Herald of Andraste. Slave. Dorian’s pet. A man clinging to a single hope – that someday the Inquisitor will rescue him.

Dorian thinks for a moment, then slides the box towards him. _Open it._

Cullen eyes him curiously. Then wipes the butter from his lips before reaching for the lid on the box. He flips it open, then stares at the object inside.

On a bed of red velvet lies a woman’s hand. Strangely, even though it is detached from the body, the mark across the palm still crackles with magical green energy.

Cullen’s heart dies.

His lips move in an unvoiced plea.

_Maker, kill me._

But the Maker does not listen.


	3. Fenris/Anders/Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for [Araglas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Araglas/pseuds/Araglas), who asked for a FenHanders, with a "dirty desire" and a happy end. 
> 
> Angst/humor/smut. NSFW.

Hawke had just finished his morning grooming ritual when Bodhan appeared in the doorway of his bedroom. “Begging your pardon, Messere,” the honey-voiced dwarf said, “but Messere Fenris is hoping to have a word with you downstairs.”

That was odd. Hawke slowly set down his razor before reaching for a towel to wipe the last of the soap from under his jaw. “You know, you could have just let him come upstairs, Bodhan.”

Bodhan held out his hands, shrugging as if to say, _What do I know about it?_ “I did tell him that he was welcome to come up, but... he _insisted_ that he preferred to wait downstairs for you.”

Hawke fretted. Certainly his relationship with Fenris had suffered a rocky start, but since they’d confronted Fenris’ old master at the Hanged Man, they’d become quite close. _Sharing a bed_ close. And since then, Fenris had come, on his own volition, to Hawke’s bedroom many times. The fact that he was refusing to come up now... _something_ wasn’t right.

“Thank you, Bodhan,” Hawke murmured.

As his manservant slipped quietly away, Hawke considered his reflection briefly in his looking glass. Puzzled. Wondered what, exactly, Fenris wanted to talk to him about that couldn’t take place in the bedroom.

 _Maker, he wants to break up with me,_ Hawke thought. _We’re going too fast. I’m pushing him too hard. I’m asking for too much..._

Except... Hawke didn’t really believe that. Since Fenris had made his decision to be with Hawke, everything had been _wonderful._ So unbelievably _right._

Well. He wasn’t going to figure out what was wrong by hiding up here in his bedroom. The only thing to do was to go down and talk to Fenris.

Although Hawke managed to keep his expression neutral, he still felt a sense of trepidation as he headed down the stairs. A sensation that only intensified when he came into the main room and actually saw Fenris, hovering near the door as if afraid to come in.

The elf looked terrible. Grim, pale, peaked. As if he hadn’t slept. Hands shoved into his armpits, arms pressed tightly against his chest as if trying to protect his heart from some hurt. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was more disheveled than usual. As Hawke approached, Fenris wasn’t quite able to lift his eyes – wide, haunted – any higher than Hawke’s chin.

A spike of worry jolted through Hawke, and he pulled up short a few paces away from his lover. “Fenris? What’s happened?”

“Hawke,” Fenris said, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

No, Hawke didn’t like this at all. Dread chilled him to the bone as he contemplated all the terrible things that might have happened. Fenris had been attacked. Or – someone they cared about was dead. Isabela? Varric? “Maker, Fenris. What is it?”

Fenris’ gaze shot down to the floor. He swallowed once. Tightened his arms about himself. Finally he managed to lift his chin, his eyes barely skimming over Hawke’s as he made his terrible confession.

“Hawke...” he rasped. “I had sex with _Anders.”_

***

  The night before, Fenris had been playing cards and drinking with Varric and Isabela at the Hanged Man.

Every now and then, Fenris allowed either Varric or Isabela to talk him into leaving the mansion. This time, Varric had even convinced Donnic to participate. Fenris rather enjoyed the company of Aveline’s husband, so he’d consented to join them.

In hindsight, it had been a terrible idea.

All was well while they played cards. Donnic laughed at Varric’s tales, which grew taller and taller as the evening progressed. Isabela flirted with every man at the table, and then laughed at herself. And the bottle of firewater they were drinking was of a particularly high quality compared to the usual swill they served at the Hanged Man. So by the time Donnic and Fenris staggered out of the tavern, both of them were more than pleasantly drunk.

Lowtown was never the safest place in Kirkwall, especially at night.

And a lone guardsman accompanied by an elf seemed an easy target to a group of thugs who had a _problem_ with the local law enforcement that had recently cracked down on their gang’s illegal nocturnal activities.

The six men melted out of the shadows. Roiled like smoke. Fenris’ razor sharp reflexes dulled by too much firewater, he was swinging blindly as they were surrounded.

Although not as deadly as Fenris, Donnic was a damn good fighter. Cool-headed in the face of danger, and skilled with a sword. Still, six against two were very unfair odds. It was only by the will of the Maker that Donnic managed to survive the skirmish unscathed, as the remaining two thugs fled back into the night while the remaining bodies of their fallen comrades cooled rapidly on the cobblestones.

Fenris, on the other hand, was not unscathed.

He staggered back. Sword scraped stone as he threw out an arm, barely managing to steady himself against the wall. The other hand pressed to the burning sensation in his side. When he pulled his hand away again, Donnic caught a flash of red on the elf’s palm.

Donnic rushed forward. “Andraste be damned, Fenris, you’re _bleeding.”_

“It’s nothing,” Fenris muttered. “I’m fine–”

Donnic lunged just as Fenris pitched backwards, his legs collapsing beneath him. Managed to catch the elf just in time before he tumbled down to the ground.

Fenris winced, grunting with pain, as Donnic heaved Fenris’ weakened body up over his shoulder, pulling Fenris’ arm across his back. Supporting Fenris with both hands, Donnic started leading him down the street. “You’re severely wounded,” the guardsman said. “I’m taking you to Anders.”

Overwhelmed by pain, Fenris could do no more than manage a mild grunt of protest. Having no other choice, he did his best to stagger along as Donnic dragged him down the shadowed streets towards Darktown.

At the clinic, Donnic tightened his grip on Fenris with his right hand as he banged furiously on the door with his left.

Through the door, he heard Anders’ muffled muttering. “Andraste’s lily white – at this hour!” Footsteps drew closer, then the door swung angrily open. For a moment, Anders stared at them in irritation. Irritation was quickly replaced with concern when he saw that both men were covered with blood.

Fenris’ blood.

“Shit! What happened?” Opening the door wider, Anders stepped out, moving to Fenris’ other side, and easing himself under the elf’s shoulder. He heard Donnic’s sigh of relief at the lessening of his burden. “Quickly. To the examining table.”

“We were jumped,” Donnic explained as they dragged Fenris towards the middle of the room. “Six men with swords. Fenris was hit.”

Donnic and Anders lifted Fenris up, placing him down on the table. Anders pushed up his sleeves as he tried to examine the wound. The armor was in the way, though, so it would have to come off. As he reached for the straps that held Fenris’ armor in place, he shot a glance at Donnic. “Over there. On the table. There’s a healing potion. Red liquid. Fetch it now.”

Donnic moved quickly towards the table.

Fenris’ eyes opened a crack. “Mage,” he croaked as Anders continued to undress him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m saving your life, you idiot.”

Fenris growled, but remained still.

As Anders pulled Fenris’ tunic away, blood suddenly began to jet out of the wound at a most alarming rate.

“Fuck me!” Anders cried out. Apparently the only thing that had kept Fenris from bleeding out was the fact that his skintight armor had applied enough pressure that it had effectively staunched the blood flow. Grabbing a handful of bandages, Anders hurried to apply pressure with his hands, ignoring Fenris’ hiss of pain. Over his shoulder, he shouted. “Donnic! I need that potion right fucking now or Fenris will die!”

Donnic stood before Anders’ table. There were dozens of vials of varying shapes and sizes and colors. _Red!_ Scanning the table, his eye fell upon a vial full of a rosy-colored liquid. That had to be it. Seizing it, he ran back to the table.

Blood was already soaking through the bandages between his fingers. “Hurry!”

Donnic popped the cork off the vial and poured its contents into Fenris’ mouth. The elf sputtered, but swallowed it.

Seconds ticked by. The results should have been instantaneous. But Fenris was still bleeding. Something wasn’t right. “It’s not working,” he muttered. He glared at Donnic. “That was _not_ the healing potion.”

“You said red...” Donnic began weakly as he held up the now empty vial.

Anders stared. Then his eyes widened. “Oh, _shit.”_ He then grabbed Donnic’s hands, forcefully putting them up against Fenris’ wound. _“Pressure._ Lots of pressure.”

Donnic did as he was told, but his eyes followed Anders’ mad dash over to the table. “Anders? What was in that vial? Maker’s breath, please tell me it wasn’t poison.”

Anders grabbed a different vial. Raced back with it. Poured it into Fenris’ mouth.

“Anders?”

Anders not-so-gently nudged Donnic out of the way. Peeling back the bandage, he breathed a sigh of relief as the wound closed before his eyes, flesh knitting itself back together.

All the tension in Fenris’ face drained away as the pain vanished.

“Anders.”

At Donnic’s hard tone, Anders lifted his gaze.

“The vial.”

“Oh. Yes. That.” Glancing away, Anders reached up a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Nothing really. Just a... love potion.”

Fenris’ eyes became wide. Big as saucers. He screeched. “A... _what?”_

Donnic blinked. Then frowned. “I thought this was a healing clinic. Why do you even _have_ a love potion?”

Anders was too ashamed to admit the reason why. He’d always had a thing for Hawke. Maker, he’d been flirting with the man for years. And, then, three years ago, just when they were getting closer... when Anders thought he had a chance... Fenris had swept in and seduced the Champion, right before breaking his heart.

Then, just a month or so ago, when Hawke’s feelings for Fenris seemed to be a thing of the past... well, Anders had bought the potion. He’d meant to bring it to Hawke’s house one night. To see if he could convince Hawke to share it with him. To be followed by a night of passion that they would both never forget.

Except it was right about then that Fenris and Hawke got back together. And since then, the potion had been sitting on his table, gathering dust.

Before he could say anything, however, Fenris suddenly lunged up, reaching towards Donnic. “Donnic, you’re a dead man!”

Donnic jumped back as Anders grabbed onto Fenris, slamming the thrashing elf back down to the table. Struggling. Yelling. “Fenris, stay still!”

Donnic inched his way towards the door. “Aveline is probably wondering where I am by now, so...” He paused, gaze darting between the two of them. “Good luck to you both.”

In his haste, Donnic slammed the door behind him.

Fenris’ eyes snapped back to Anders. Then narrowed. “If you tell me that I’m going to fall in love with you, I _will_ kill you.”

“What? Oh. No. The, ah... name is misleading. It isn’t really a love potion. It’s... umm... more of an aphrodisiac.”

Fenris’ eyes widened.

“Oh, and because you’re an elf, there’s actually a chance you could die if you don’t... well, to put it bluntly – fuck it out of your system.”

Fenris stared at him, too stunned to speak. Then snapped back to his senses. “If that is true, then... I need to get to Hawke.”

Anders stopped him before he could climb off the table. “Listen. I doubt you’d make it to Hightown in time. Especially not in the state you’re in.” Anders paused, grim. “You’re feeling it already, aren’t you?”

Fenris had been trying to ignore it. That warm feeling in his stomach. The slowly increasing tension a bit further below. The hammering of his heart. And the demand of the stiffening prick in his pants.

“Mage, you’re not actually suggesting...” Fenris trailed off, eyes narrowing again. “You can’t be serious.”

Anders considered Fenris for a moment. He bore absolutely no love for Fenris. But that didn’t mean he thought the elf unattractive. He’d even harbored a very secret fantasy or two. And – as terrible as it was – he had no problem with hate sex. “Well. It has been a _very_ long time.”

Shock widened Fenris’ eyes again. Then he growled. “I’d rather die than fuck you.”

Anders cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure about that?” he asked.

Then slid one hand down Fenris’ naked chest.

At his touch, Fenris was suddenly alive. Electrified by an unrelenting, unbridled _need._ Impossible to ignore. Impossible to resist. All common sense and logic – gone.

Anders made a strange noise as Fenris suddenly leapt on top of him, his weight carrying them both down to the floor.

***

Fenris stopped speaking.

Unable to meet Hawke’s eyes, he stared at the floor at Hawke’s feet. Waited, afraid. Afraid of the angry words Hawke would say. Afraid of Hawke’s fists, though he knew that if Hawke hit him, he wouldn’t resist because he deserved it. Afraid that Hawke would kick him out, and never want to see him again. After all, Fenris had betrayed Hawke’s trust. He didn’t deserve to be forgiven.

Despite knowing what he risked, Fenris knew he couldn’t keep what happened a secret. Knowing Anders, there was no way that the mage wouldn’t someday use it against him. It had always been obvious that Anders didn’t like seeing him with Hawke. After he’d slunk out of the clinic around dawn, he’d had a few hours to think about it, and had decided that Hawke deserved to hear the truth from Fenris’ own lips.

Hawke was quiet for a very long time, absorbing what Fenris had just said. _Fenris... and Anders._ Never in a thousand years had he ever thought that a possibility. Even if Fenris had been under the influence of a powerful aphrodisiac.

“Fenris,” Hawke said finally. “What you did with Anders... did you like it?”

Fenris bit his lip. Hands clenched into fists. Continued to stare at the floor.

Hawke sighed. “I take it that’s a yes.”

Fenris muttered a hoarse, “Hawke...”

Sighing again, Hawke turned. Walked towards his desk. Let his fingers trace over the edges of the unanswered letters there without really seeing them. “You know, Fenris,” he said softly. “I never thought you’d give me a reason to feel so jealous.”

Fenris reluctantly lifted his eyes, letting them trace over Hawke’s broad shoulders. His muscular back. So beautiful, so strong. “If you hate me, I understand –” Fenris began, words suddenly cut off as Hawke turned. His eyes dropped back to the floor as Hawke walked back over to him.

Hawke’s hand cupped his chin, forcing him to look up. “I don’t hate you, Fenris. And I’m not jealous that you had sex with another man.” Hawke smiled softly. “I’m jealous because I didn’t get to _be_ there with the both of you.”

Fenris’ eyes widened in surprise. “Hawke...?”

Hawke’s fingers gently stroked along his cheek. “Honestly, given the way you feel about Anders... I never even _dreamed_ of admitting this to you. Just a dirty little secret that I thought I’d take to my grave. But ever since we got back from the Deep Roads, I’ve always had this fantasy of being together. With the two of you.”

Fenris averted his eyes as the heat rose to his face. “I... uh...” he stammered. “I didn’t realize that you... ah... felt that way.”

Hawke made a small noise of amusement. “Fenris, you know how I feel about you. You’re the man I want always by my side. But I wouldn’t be adverse to having Anders in our bed... but only on the condition that _you_ willed it.”

Fenris lifted his gaze in wonder and surprise. “Hawke...”

Hawke’s expression became serious as he looked into Fenris’ eyes. Dropping his hand, he said, “Even so... to ask you... if you’d be willing...” Hawke trailed off, then laughed bitterly. “It would be selfish of me.”

Fenris averted his gaze again. That Hawke had seemingly forgiven him for his transgression... his _betrayal..._ _kaffas,_ it was beyond anything he’d hoped during his torturous walk of shame from the clinic in Darktown. He owed this man so much. Would walk through fire just to be at his side. Would do just about _anything._ But what Hawke was suggesting... that they bring – _of all people!_ – Anders to their bed... it was a bit difficult for him to imagine himself ever touching Anders again.

It was strange how conflicted he felt.

“Hawke...” Fenris began. “I don’t... I’ve never...”

The words died in Fenris’ throat as Hawke’s large hands fell gently upon his shoulders. Daring to lift his gaze again, all he saw in the man’s eyes was warmth. Affection. Love.

“It’s all right, Fenris,” Hawke said softly. Then leaned down and pressed his lips against Fenris’ in a warm, sweet kiss.

As Hawke kissed him, Fenris felt it in his knees, making him weak. In his heart, making it beat. And in his soul, making it sing.

For this man – _anything._

***

Anders’ nervous fingers smoothed down the feathers on his coat before he finally found the nerve to ring the bell at Hawke’s door.

Bodhan answered with his usual inexplicable cheerfulness. “Welcome, Messere. The master of the house is expecting you in the library. Do you need me to show you the way?”

“No, thank you, Bodhan. I remember where it is.”

“Then may I offer to take your coat?”

Anders vaguely wondered how Hawke managed to keep such a large mansion so warm as he shrugged out of his coat. Then handed it to the dwarf, along with his magical staff. There was no need to defend himself here. If Hawke was going to stab him for what happened with Fenris... well, to be honest, he probably deserved it.

As he made his way slowly to the library, Anders tried to swallow down his apprehension. Nearly a week had passed since Donnic had dragged Fenris, half-dead from blood loss, into his clinic. Since then, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of either Fenris or Hawke. Or anyone else for that matter, as the clinic had been busier than usual, so he hadn’t even had time to run over to visit Varric at the Hanged Man. So he hadn’t heard from anyone, at least not until Hawke had sent him a message that afternoon, requesting that he come to the estate.

 _He must know._ Hawke never sent him messages – if he needed Anders, he would just show up at the clinic, minions in tow, and drag Anders off somewhere terrible like the Wounded Coast. _Fenris probably told him._ Fenris was disagreeable in so many ways – even so, Anders couldn’t imagine the elf ever lying to Hawke.

Anders slowed before he reached the library, considering what he was going to say to Hawke. He couldn’t deny that he was responsible. If he hadn’t left that stupid vial lying around, right on his work table, then none of what followed would have happened. And he’d be lying if he said that he’d only offered Fenris the use of his body in order to save the elf’s life. No, he’d done it because he’d _wanted_ Fenris to fuck him like a frenzied, lust-fueled beast all night long.

At the library door, Anders drew a deep breath before he entered.

There was a small bar against one wall. Hawke stood at it, pouring drinks.

And sitting in one of the armchairs near the fire – to Anders’ surprise – was Fenris.

Hawke reached for another glass, filling this one as well. Carrying all three, he passed one to Fenris before handing another to the mage. “I’m glad you could make it,” Hawke said. “Have a seat.”

Despite his confusion, Anders inched his way over to the remaining available chair. Sinking down into it, he took a sip from the glass. A very fine brandy. He noted that Fenris was avoiding his gaze, so he turned to Hawke, watching expectantly as the Champion moved to stand before the fire, sipping from his own glass.

“So,” Hawke finally said. “Fenris told me what happened.”

As Anders had suspected. Silent, he waited, fingers tightly gripping the glass.

“Anyway,” Hawke continued, “I don’t see any point in beating around the bush. We’ve talked it over, and... well, we were wondering if you’d be interested in staying here tonight. With us.”

Anders paused. Accidentally knocked the glass against his teeth as he raised it blindly to his lips. _No, he doesn’t mean what I think he means..._ “Staying with you...?”

“Yes,” Hawke said. “Staying. With us. In my bed.”

“In your bed,” Anders repeated slowly. He cast a quick glance at Fenris, who was still avoiding his gaze. Switching back to Hawke, he said, “That... is entirely what I wasn’t expecting.”

Hawke chuckled. “I imagine not,” he said. “Sorry to just throw it at you like that.” Cocking his head, Hawke considered the mage. “If you’re not interested, Anders, just say the word and we’ll pretend we never had this conversation.”

Anders was quite certain that pretending would be impossible. Now that the idea of having sex with Hawke and Fenris at the same time was in his head, he very much doubted it would go away.

Anders turned to face Fenris fully. “And you,” he said. “You really agreed to this?”

Green eyes flickered over him briefly. “If Hawke wishes to have you with us, then... I could find no reason to refuse.”

Andraste’s blessed bosoms, _that_ was practically a love confession coming from the broody elf.

“Oh,” Hawke added, as he withdrew a small vial from his pocket and held it up. “I thought this might help.”

Inside the vial, a familiar rosy-hued liquid.

Madame Tullerie’s Love Potion #5.

Anders thought for only a few seconds more.

“So...” Anders said. “Where is your bedroom?”

***

They had finished their drinks before retiring to Hawke’s bedroom. And they had dosed themselves with the potion. Not the entire vial, and a much smaller share for Fenris. Just enough to enhance the experience. To loosen any lingering inhibitions.

Anders shivered with delight when Hawke and Fenris’ fingers brushed against his skin as they undressed him. Then heat from the fireplace lapped up strongly against as his legs as Hawke coaxed him out of his pants.

He shivered again as Fenris’ hands fell upon his hips and he felt the elf’s hot breath against the back of his neck. “Hawke. How do you want this to work?”

Hawke straightened. Hunger in his eyes as he lifted a hand, letting his fingers trace gently along the side of Anders’ face. Anders then sighed with pleasure as Hawke’s fingers tugged loose the ribbon in his hair, then swept through Anders’ hair, nails scratching deliciously across the mage’s scalp.

Hawke hummed thoughtfully. He’d never used any sort of aphrodisiac before, and now he was marveling at the gloriously silky feel of Anders’ hair between his fingers. Glancing at Fenris over Anders’ shoulder, Hawke noted, by Fenris’ expression, that the elf was also beginning to feel the potion’s effects.

Hawke knew Fenris’ preferences in bed. Anders, however...

“Anders? What can we do to you?”

“Oh,” Anders murmured, his eyes already hazy from the minimal attentions he’d received thus far. “You can do _anything_ you want with me.”

Hawke’s expression became skeptical. “Anything?”

Anders smiled. “It’s... well, it’s been a long time since I’ve been a naughty mage.”

Hawke’s fingers curled into the back of his neck. Anders parted his lips as Hawke’s mouth sought his. Moaned as Hawke tasted deeply of him. Moaned again as Fenris’ fingers skirted over his hips, then ghosted over his cock.

Maker, he was already hard. And breathless when Hawke drew back. “I... uh, I think you’re both wearing too many clothes.”

Hawke grinned at him. “I’m sure that we can remedy that. Right, Fenris?”

Anders shivered again as Fenris’ breath blew across his skin. “As you wish.”

Anders watched as the other two men began to undress. Both of them slowly pulling shirts over heads, making muscle ripple deliciously. Kicking off boots. Hawke’s wicked grin. Eerie flash of phosphorescent green as Fenris’ eyes caught the light from the fire. The teasing slide of fabric over hips, revealing their rather aroused states.

Pants and small clothes kicked aside, they reached for him.

Suddenly Fenris was pressed against his back. Hard cock insistent against his ass as Fenris’ hand twined into his hair, coaxing his head to the side so that he could claim Anders’ mouth in an unexpectedly passionate kiss.

At the same time, Hawke’s hands seized him by the hips. Hawke’s cock pressed against his as Hawke left a series of hot, wet kisses down his neck.

In-between kisses, Hawke murmured. “Anything, Anders?”

Fenris’ mouth slipped off his. Hot eager tongue swept across his jaw, darted dangerously into his ear. “Uh...” Anders moaned, already in love with everything happening to him. “Yes... anything... Maker, yes.”

He moaned again as Hawke’s hand slipped down between them, taking both of their cocks in hand and beginning to leisurely stroke. “Would you be willing to take us? Both? At once?”

As if what Hawke’s hand was doing to him wasn’t enough, his suggestion of doing something so blighted _filthy_ to him made his cock twitch, even as his body quivered at the thought. He’d never done anything that depraved before. Was it even possible? What would it feel like? Would he like being used that way?

“Hawke...” he began, then made a desperate little whimper as Fenris’ fingers slid over his nipples. “That sounds painful...”

Hawke’s lips grazed over his once – softly, almost sweetly. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Hawke murmured. “I don’t want to hurt you. We’ll make sure you’re ready.”

Anders let his hands skim up, delighting in the feel of Hawke’s warm skin over the hard muscle of his stomach and chest. “If that’s what you want... then, all right. I’ll try.”

“Oh, Anders,” Hawke murmured, voice infused with pleasure, and – as a reward – he squeezed their cocks a little bit tighter, stroking with more vigor.

With another little whimper, Anders’ fingers dug into Hawke’s shoulders. Then a little harder as Hawke gently pushed up against him, coaxing both him and Fenris towards the bed.

The three of them tumbled down. At Hawke’s urging, Anders lay down in the middle of the bed as Hawke and Fenris stretched out at either side of him. For several glorious minutes, Anders basked in the attention. Hands and lips explored, breath quickening, fingers teasing, limbs entwining until the mage was no longer quite certain where his body ended and their bodies began.

Then there were two hands on his aching cock. Sweet Andraste, he was so hard. Needing it. Wanting more. He almost wept at the loss of their touch when Hawke finally reached for his shoulders, coaxing him up into a different position. On his hands and knees, Hawke kneeling before him.

Briefly he admired Hawke’s cock as it hovered before his face. Long and rather thick, curving slightly up and to the left. Even more glorious than he’d imagined it. He nearly sighed with contentment as Hawke pressed it gently against his lips, opening his mouth and letting his tongue dart out to give it a few preliminary licks. In response, Hawke groaned softly and put his hand on Anders’ head, curling his fingers into Anders’ hair.

“Maker, Anders, you’re marvelous,” Hawke breathed, as Anders continued to tease him. Then his gaze fell on his lover. “Fenris... are you just going to watch?”

Fenris had been watching. There was something rather... _intriguing_ about the way the mage looked, on his hands and knees, mouth pressed to Hawke’s groin. Fenris decided that subservient and willing was a good place for him. Equally intriguing was the look of pleasure on Hawke’s face. The Champion was _enjoying_ this. Strangely – though he was certain that it was mostly due to the potion – Fenris was also enjoying himself far more than he’d thought he would.

“Hawke,” Fenris husked. “What do you want me to do?”

A sly little smile appeared on Hawke’s lips. “His mouth is mine, Fenris. But the rest is yours.”

That night at the clinic, sex with Fenris had been rough. So Anders was completely surprised when the elf quite carefully and gently inserted one well-oiled finger inside him. Penetrating slowly as his other hand teased over Anders’ cock. Everything Fenris was doing to him felt almost unbearably _good_. Then, as Fenris’ finger curled to swipe over that sensitive spot inside him, Anders nearly came.

His mouth, which had been sucking the head of Hawke’s cock, slipped off as he let out a long, soft moan.

Hawke looked down at Anders. Lips wet and parted, eyes squeezed shut, face flushed pink. _Maker’s balls,_ Anders really was marvelous. Lifting his gaze, Hawke flashed a small smile at Fenris, who responded by sliding two fingers inside of Anders, causing the mage to make a choked, needy noise.

Hawke watched with interest as Fenris continued to finger the mage. It was so hot, he almost didn’t care that Anders had become distracted from his task of pleasuring Hawke. Especially when the mage started writhing, trying to thrust back on the elf’s fingers, and started to beg.

“Fenris... Fenris _please..._ just fuck me already...”

“Hawke,” Fenris muttered, voice even huskier. “Shut the mage up.”

Hawke chuckled. “With pleasure,” he replied. Slipping a hand under Anders’ chin, he coaxed the mage back up. With his other hand, he guided himself back to Anders’ mouth. “Anders. Open.”

Anders obediently opened his mouth. Made a small noise of pleasure as Hawke slid in past his lips. Then made a much louder noise as he felt Fenris’ cock, slippery and hard as steel, began inching inside him.

They were going too slow. Anders wanted _more_ and he wanted it _now._ Whining his need, he thrust back against Fenris. An involuntary gasp escaped the elf as Anders impaled himself nearly to the hilt on Fenris’ cock.

Hawke’s fingers twined into Anders’ hair again as he continued to thrust partway into the blond’s mouth. Hummed in appreciation as the mage heartily sucked. And laughed at the expression of surprise on Fenris’ face.

“I don’t think you need to hold back, Fen.”

Fenris grunted. But wrapped his hands around the mage’s hips and began to fuck him in earnest.

Anders was ready to die. He’d had fantasies about both of these men, but this – it was better than anything he’d ever dreamed of. Sucking the Champion’s gorgeous cock while having his ass plowed expertly by Fenris from behind – the sensations were almost too much.

His mouth full, he couldn’t speak, but his thoughts were a half-dazed litany.

_Oh Maker yes feels so good fuck yes so good fuck yes..._

He thought it couldn’t feel any better than this. At least until lithe elven fingers groped down between his legs and began stroking him decisively in time with their thrusts.

Breath caught. Heart staggered. Body on fire.

Anders came harder than he’d ever come before.

Mind obliterated.

Gone.

***

“Anders? You still sure you want to do this?”

Anders considered that. He doubted that either man would hold it against him if he changed his mind. Even now, as he straddled Hawke, who lay on his back on the bed, with his cock deep in Anders’ body.

After his climax, Hawke and Fenris had withdrawn. Settled him down among the silken sheets and pillows. Then Hawke had sat up to pour them all some water from a pitcher by the bed. Anders hadn’t realized how parched he was until the cool water had passed his lips. Then, glasses empty, the others had been caressing and kissing him and each other again.

Once both Fenris and Hawke’s members were oiled up, they changed positions. Staring down into Hawke’s beautiful eyes, Anders shifted his body, and then sank down onto Hawke until the Champion was all the way in.

That had been the easy part. Anders still wasn’t sure if he’d be able to take another man in. And – even with the help of the potion – he suspected that it was most likely going to hurt.

Still, a part of him was turned on by the idea of doing something so depraved. And he wasn’t adverse to a little pain. And he knew Hawke really wanted this, so there was a part of Anders that wanted to please him.

“Yes,” Anders said, voice shaky. “Still sure.”

Hawke reached up to brush a loose lock of hair behind Anders’ ear. His touch gentle. Then he placed both hands on Anders’ shoulders, pulling his body down, as if for a kiss.

When Hawke didn’t kiss him, Anders realized his intention. To grant Fenris easier access.

Fenris’ hands were hot where they fell upon his hips.

Anders tried to relax as Fenris lined himself up and started pushing in.

Maker, it _did_ hurt. Like he was being stretched to the limit. Whatever his expression was doing couldn’t have been good because then Hawke’s hand was on his face, Hawke looking up at him with concern. “Anders? Do you want to stop?”

“No,” Anders breathed. “Just... go slow.”

Fenris slowed his entry. Painstakingly slow. Despite whatever Fenris felt about him personally, Anders had to credit him for being considerate in bed.

And then, finally, Fenris stopped pushing. “I’m in.”

Hawke’s hands settled on Anders’ shoulders. Fenris’ tightened around his hips. Then, coordinating their efforts, both men started to thrust inside him.

Anders was beyond full. The pain wasn’t intolerable, so he knew he could endure it. But it wasn’t the good kind of pain, either. It was just _shit that hurts._

Below him, Hawke’s expression became one of wonder and pleasure. “Fuck, Fenris,” he murmured. “I can feel you.”

Fenris’ only reply was a throaty grunt.

 _I can take it,_ Anders thought to himself. _It’s not that bad._

A minute went by as Anders suffered in silence. Then another. And then something happened. As his body began to relax and loosen up, Hawke’s cock slid up against his sweet spot. He couldn’t help but to make a strangled noise in his throat.

Hawke’s voice seemed a mile away. “Anders?”

Anders panted as Hawke continued to hit that spot. “Oh, _fuck,”_ he groaned. “Maker, it feels... uh... so fucking _amazing.”_

As Hawke and Fenris continued to pump inside him, Anders clawed the sheets, moaning loudly and writhing like a cheap whore. He hadn’t expected it to feel good – especially not _this_ good. Oh Maker, he was going to come again. Especially when Fenris growled behind him.

“Hawke – faster.”

Suddenly both men were now pounding into him relentlessly. Anders gripped the sheets harder. “Hawke...” he moaned. “Fenris... yes...Maker, _please_...”

Anders last word came out as a whine, and then he was gasping as he shuddered through another mind-obliterating orgasm.

Anders’ peak set off a chain reaction. As Anders’ body convulsed around them, Fenris lost control, each spasm accompanied by a loud, almost pained-sounding grunt.

Hawke – feeling the clench of Anders around him as well as the throb of Fenris’ release against his own cock – also succumbed.

Afterward, they sprawled on the bed in a tangle of limbs, not speaking.

Finally, Hawke shifted. Reached for the sheet to wipe Anders’ spend off his stomach. Then he laughed softly. “Shit. That was awesome.”

Anders hummed.

Fenris grunted.

Silence fell again. Anders couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good. Sated. Relaxed. Intoxicated on sex. Even though he was sure he was going to feel quite sore in the morning.

In the morning. When he woke up alone in his bed in the back of the clinic. Early, because his patients usually started arriving shortly after dawn. While Fenris and Hawke would probably still be warm as they lay together, here in Hawke’s comfortable bed.

Anders lingered for another moment. Then sighed internally. He had a long walk back to Darktown. No point in putting it off any longer. The streets weren’t going to get any brighter or safer if he waited.

Anders sat up. Scooted to the edge of the bed. He was aware of their gazes upon him as he walked towards the fireplace, bending down to scoop up his pants.

“Anders?” Hawke said. “Are you leaving?” A pause, and then, “Was it that bad? I thought... I thought you liked it.”

Anders glanced back at the bed. “I... well, we had our fun. I don’t want to... intrude any longer than necessary.”

Hawke frowned slightly. “No one is kicking you out, Anders. We asked you to stay the night. The night isn’t over.” His eyes slid over to the elf. “Right, Fenris?”

Fenris regarded both of them coolly. “I’m not sleeping next to the mage.”

Anders was not surprised. So why did those words still sting?

Hawke huffed. “Fenris.”

Fenris looked at Hawke. Then sighed. “Fine. He can stay. As long as you’re in the middle.”

Hawke smiled. “Sleeping between two handsome men? Works for me.”

Anders watched as both men shifted in the bed so that they were under the sheets, so that Fenris was on the far side, Hawke in the middle. Then Hawke lifted up one edge of the blanket in invitation to the mage.

After a moment’s consideration, Anders dropped his pants on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I have three more stories planned, all involving Fenris. Which is awesome because I love Fenris, but I'd happily take prompts with other characters for the sake of variety. *cough*Dorian*cough*


	4. Dorian/Alistair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for mostly for [intellectualwasteland](http://archiveofourown.org/users/intellectualwasteland/pseuds/intellectualwasteland) who has asked me for some Dorian/Alistair fics. I hope this tides you over!
> 
> Also for [notanotherscreenname](http://archiveofourown.org/users/notanotherscreenname/pseuds/notanotherscreenname) who supplied the prompt which led to: "Alistair with someone who gets dosed, so we can have that sort of playful, sweet thing going on where Alistair is trying to help them through it."
> 
> Smut/fluff. NSFW.

Dorian Pavus had no qualms with stealing bottles from the Inquisition’s wine cellars.

After all, he did such a good job as one of the Inquisition’s agents. Why, the Inquisition practically _owed_ him! Without his magic, the Inquisitor would have been dead at least five times over from attacks by pesky undead things. Also, he’d saved Cassandra’s hard ass from bears more than once. He didn’t know how that woman managed to attract the creatures so easily – it was as if she’d smeared honey all over herself and hung a sign in bear language that read _Come and get it._ Not to mention how he’d traipsed through swamps and mud and nature to fight bandits and nasty darkspawn without complaining.

Well – without _much_ complaining.

Therefore, once they’d returned to Skyhold after a less-than-delightful trip to the _actual_ Fade, Dorian made his way immediately to the cellars to collect his well-earned prize.

As he perused the racks, he realized that he’d been taking bottles exclusively from the first row near the cavernous door. It was where he’d discovered that some of the finer vintages from Tevinter were stored. Now, though, the empty spaces where the bottles used to be seemed glaringly obvious.

He freted a bit over the remaining bottle of _Spiritus Draco,_ but knew that it was most likely in his best interest to seek his spiritual sustenance elsewhere.

Brushing back cobwebs, Dorian proceeded deeper into the cellars, lighting with his way with a small flame he’d conjured, until he could go no further. Then he began to examine the bottles on a rack in the back corner, until one caught his eye. Withdrawing it with his free hand, he studied it more closely.

Of a deep green glass, it was stoppered not by wax, but by a rather ornate crystal knob. Intrigued, he wiped the dust from it with the edge of his sleeve to read the label.

_Dragoste Bautura._

Dorian puzzled over that. It was no language that he’d ever seen. There were more words on the label, but they were equally incomprehensible. Still, it was clearly old, expensive and rare, and he’d already disturbed the bottle, so putting it back wasn’t really an option. Of course, being this old, there was a good possibility that its contents had already turned into vinegar.

He decided to take it. If worse came to worse and the wine was undrinkable, he could always return for the _Spiritus Draco_. Bottle tucked under his arm, he headed out.

***

By the last of the light, Dorian continued to leisurely flip through the pages of his book.

After leaving the wine cellars, he’d decided to sit in the gardens. It was a beautiful night, he had a wonderful book and a delightful bottle of wine, and – most importantly – he wasn’t dead. The only thing that could have made this evening more perfect was if he had a handsome young man in his bed. Choices at Skyhold were limited, so it had been many months – more than he’d like to admit – since he’d had any company of that sort.

As his mind wandered back to the last sexual encounter he’d had with a handsome young mage in Redcliff, he felt that familiar itch.

He tried to ignore it by focusing on the words on the page before him. Except the itch was refusing to be ignored. It hovered, gently prodding, at the edge of his consciousness. As time passed, the itch grew more incessant, accompanied by some other odd sensations.

He felt... strange. His stomach was growing increasingly warm, his head almost light, like whipped air. Then, all of a sudden, he felt his nerves light up and burn hot – as though a mage had cast an electricity spell upon him – causing the book to slip from his fingers as he bent over, clutching at the fire in his belly with a groan.

He didn’t know what was happening. Or how long he’d remained bent over like that when a soft-spoken male voice, thick with concern, floated into his ear. “Lord Pavus... is that you? Are you all right?”

 _Maker, am I... dying?_ Desperate, Dorian reached out and latched onto the man who had appeared before him. Blindly his hands fell on strong arms. Through Grey Warden Alistair’s shirt Dorian could feel the warmth of his skin. At the contact, Dorian’s blood blazed hot and fierce, as the heat in his stomach fled south, punching him right between his legs, and his entire body was filled with a rush of terrible lust.

“The wine...” Dorian gasped. “Something in it...”

Alistair’s eyes widened. He glanced at the bottle on the bench for only a second. “Poison? I’ll get help.”

“No!” Dorian protested, fingers clutching more tightly onto Alistair’s arms. “No, not...” Dorian trailed off with a little hiccup in his voice as another wave of lust rolled through him. “Not poison.”

Alistair regarded him, his concern now mixed with confusion. “If it’s not poison, then... what is it?”

Swallowing, Dorian attempted to get a hold of himself. As soon as he’d touched Alistair, he’d known exactly what it was. “Have you... have you ever taken an aphrodisiac?”

At any other time, Dorian would have found the expression on Alistair’s face priceless. It was clearly not a question he’d expected, at least from someone who was practically a stranger – terrifying trips to the actual Fade together notwithstanding. “Ah... umm... no?” Alistair said. “I mean, after the Joining, Grey Wardens get a little... frisky... but... I imagine it’s not the same?”

Dorian somehow managed to release his grip on Alistair and make his voice sound almost light. “I think this is frisky times a thousand.”

Alistair tilted his head. In his expression, the same concern. “Surely someone here at Skyhold can help? If it’s magical, then... one of the other mages?”

Dorian drew in a deep breath as his hands twisted frantically together in his lap, trying to keep them from shaking. _Maker, this feeling..._ it was nearly unbearable. Like being on the brink of a climax, and desperately needing release. _Kaffas!_ “I don’t want anyone else to see me... not like this.”

Alistair’s expression became grim. “What if this isn’t what you think it is? What if it kills you?”

Dorian’s hands squeezed tighter. He made an attempt at levity. “At least I’ll leave a pretty corpse.”

Alistair hesitated. Then his tone became more determined. “I’m taking you to get help. One of the mages. So, Vivienne, Solas or Morrigan?” Alistair frowned, then added, “Please don’t say Morrigan.”

Dorian knew that the Grey Warden wasn’t going to take no for an answer. And he didn’t have the strength to argue. Briefly he considered the unappealing options of his rival mages. “Anyone but Solas.”

Alistair reached down to grab the half-empty wine bottle, then held out a hand. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

***

Taking Alistair’s hand had been a bad idea. Any sort of touch was a bad idea. Even the feel of his own clothes brushing against his skin was enough to make Dorian quiver uncontrollably with need. Therefore, he sat as still as possible, as far away from Alistair as possible, hunched up against one end of Vivienne’s couch as the Warden succinctly explained the situation, and trying to pretend like he wasn’t going to either lose control or fall to pieces at any given moment.

He and Vivienne had very different ideas about mage rights and magic, so Dorian wasn’t entirely surprised when her cool eyes fell upon him with contempt. “So, darling,” she drawled. “You drank something without knowing what it was and now you run to me like a bitch in heat.”

Dorian didn’t even have the energy to participate in their usual vicious banter. Instead, he tightened his arms about himself, silent and grim.

Vivienne’s expression softened. “You really must be unwell,” she said, now with a touch of sympathy in her tone. Then she held out a hand towards Alistair. “The bottle, please.”

Alistair shifted his weight back and forth as Vivienne cast a spell. Setting the bottle down upon the table, she tilted her head at Alistair. “There is indeed magic in this wine,” she said. “Old magic. How old, I cannot tell. To tell the truth, I’ve never seen anything quite like it before.” She turned to Dorian. “How long ago did you drink this?”

“Not long,” Dorian managed. “Perhaps half an hour ago.”

“And can you describe precisely how it’s making you feel?”

Dorian grimaced. “Oh, fucking Maker,” he muttered. “Must I?”

“If you want me to help, then it is necessary that I have an idea what you’re suffering. And, my dear, you do seem to be suffering.”

 _Ugh._ Dorian shifted – which was a mistake, because he was nearly overcome by the exquisite and painful sensation of his steel-hard shaft rubbing against the fabric of his pants. He certainly didn’t relish the thought of explaining to Vivienne how he felt like he might die if he didn’t fuck or be fucked – and right now, he didn’t much care which. “Let me put it this way,” Dorian said. “It feels like if Alistair even _breathes_ on me, I’m going to need a new pair of small clothes.”

Alistair awkwardly cleared his throat.

Vivienne considered that the way she considered everything – with perfect aplomb. “I see,” she said. “But you are in full control of your... baser desires.”

Dorian spoke through gritted teeth. “Barely.”

Vivienne became thoughtful. “My dear, have you ever heard of Madame Tullerie’s Love Potion #5?”

Dorian shook his head.

“It’s a rather strong aphrodisiac. It can have adverse effects, depending on the dosage, and upon the person taking it. From what I can tell, whatever you imbibed is very similar.” Vivienne paused, tracing a finger along the armrest. “You’re a relatively young and healthy man, so I don’t think you’ll suffer from any ill effects beyond what you’re feeling now, as unpleasant as it might be. I suspect it will wear off in a few hours.”

Alistair shifted again, crossing his arms in front of him. “And there’s nothing we can do to alleviate his suffering?”

The look Vivienne gave him was so disdainful, Alistair felt about as small and intelligent as a cockroach. At that moment, she reminded him of Morrigan. “My dear,” she drawled. “There is one way to relieve his suffering, but I don’t suppose you’ll like it.”

Confused, Alistair cocked an eyebrow at the Orlesian mage. “Funny how often people are right when they tell me I’m not going to like something. What is it?”

Vivienne’s chuckle was dark and throaty. “Well, given the nature of Dorian’s tastes, I suppose the... _attentions._.. of a strapping young Templar would prove most satisfactory.”

“Oh...?” Alistair began, then his face flushed suddenly pink as realization set in. _“Oh._ I... right.”

 _Kaffas!_ Dorian thought. _Could this be any more embarrassing?_ He huffed out an exasperated breath. “May we please just go now?”

***

As they walked away, Dorian kept his hands jammed into his armpits, and kept himself at least an arm’s length away from the handsome Warden. He didn’t quite trust himself not to act on the impulses that were now consuming his thoughts. In fact, he was pretty sure that most of his intellect had decided that now would be a good time to take a short respite, for this thoughts were mostly comprised of sexual fantasies about the Warden.

As they rounded the quiet library, Alistair cleared his throat. “So, ah...Lord Pavus...” Alistair stammered. “Maker, I don’t know to say this delicately, but... is there... umm... some man here at Skyhold who could... ah...”

Agitated, Dorian snapped. “Fuck this potion out of me?”

Alistair’s hazel eyes slid away from Dorian’s face. “Ah... not exactly the wording I was going to use, but... yes.”

To his lust-addled mind, that was the best suggestion Dorian had ever heard in his life. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a lover at Skyhold, though he could think of one man who’d be willing to claim that post. Dorian grunted, then admitted, grudgingly, “Well... the Iron Bull, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Alistair said, tone flat. “I know he went to the Storm Coast with the Inquisitor, so... he isn’t really an option.”

Dorian couldn’t believe that he’d just admitted that he’d be willing to bed the Qunari. And that horned beast of a man had the gall to be away from Skyhold when Dorian needed him. He almost hated himself in that moment. “Just... ugh... help me get to my room. I’ll deal with it on my own.”

Following alongside Dorian, Alistair accompanied the mage to his room.

Dorian’s room was tucked away in a mostly unused part of Skyhold. Once inside, Alistair waited as Dorian struggled with shaking hands to cast a flame spell to light the lamp. Once the room was softly illuminated by golden light, the Warden considered his surroundings.

It was a small room, all stone. But there were homey, almost luxurious touches everywhere – colorful curtains over the window, a silky-looking coverlet upon the bed, a beautiful mirror in a golden frame, and a small row of books upon the mantle. It was cozy. Inviting. The room of a man who craved a private space of his own but had been denied it for too long.

“We still don’t know for certain what was in that wine,” Alistair said. “Perhaps it would be best if I stayed. If something happened... even if you were to call out, no one would hear you.”

Dorian tossed himself down in the armchair near the unlit hearth. In his lap, his hands were clenched. “I don’t think you should.”

“And why not?”

Dorian stared down into his lap. When he spoke again, his voice was low, barely more than a rasp. “Because I don’t think I can control myself much longer.”

Suddenly, Dorian’s remark about dealing with it himself became clear. “Oh. Right.” He thought for a moment. He didn’t really want to leave the mage alone. “Don’t let me stop you. If you need to... ah... relieve yourself... I’ll just turn around.”

 _This._ It was absolutely ridiculous. Except that Dorian’s need was too great. His cock was so hard that it _hurt._ He’d never felt this lascivious before. Alistair had barely turned around before Dorian’s fingers were fumbling with on the buckle of his pants, reaching in to withdraw his erection. An involuntary hiss escaped through his teeth as he began to touch himself.

His eyes fell on Alistair. What else was there to look at in the small room? As his hand moved up and down his pulsating shaft, his gaze traveled down Alistair’s back, coming to rest on the Warden’s ass.

Alistair was a handsome man, so naturally Dorian had checked him out before. Round, firm buttocks filled out his snug-fitting pants enticingly. Maker, Alistair’s ass was really hot. As Dorian’s eyes traced those enticing curves, he became overwhelmed by the pressure that had built up inside him. Suddenly, his body shuddering, he came.

He’d tried to be quiet about it, but a small sound like a whimper escaped him.

A moment passed, then Alistair spoke. “Can I turn around?”

Dorian was still trying to catch his breath. “No, not yet.” Maker, he couldn’t believe that he’d gotten off so quickly just by looking at Alistair’s ass. This was too much. And, as if to mock him, his erection still jutted up from his body, unflagging, demanding more. “Shit, it’s not... it didn’t help.” Once again his eyes fell on Alistair’s alluring backside and he briefly thought about touching it. In response, his cock twitched its approval.

 _You despicable beast,_ Dorian thought at it.

“Ah... Lord Pavus?”

“Dorian... please,” the mage murmured. He didn’t see any point in being formal, especially now that he’d just masturbated in front of the man... well, behind him. _“Kaffas!_ I just want...” Dorian trailed off, laughing weakly. “A drink. Perhaps I can drink myself out of it.”

Reaching into his sleeve, Dorian withdrew a handkerchief. Once he’d cleaned himself up and fastened his pants, he cleared his throat. “All right – you can turn around now.”

Alistair turned. Expression neutral. “Do you have any wine here?”

“Ah... yes. In the wardrobe.”

Dorian’s hands clamped into fists again. He tried not to watch Alistair too closely as the Warden opened his armoire, especially when he bent over to pick up the wine. He found Dorian’s wine goblet, uncorked the bottle, then poured a liberal amount before bringing the wine over to Dorian.

Dorian lifted the goblet to his lips, gulping down the ruby liquid without stopping. He handed the empty glass back to Alistair. “Another.”

He drank the second one almost as quickly, prompting Alistair to comment. “Maybe you should try pacing yourself?”

 _Maker, now he probably thinks I’m a lush,_ Dorian thought. He passed the goblet back to Alistair. This close, he could smell the Warden. Dorian picked up on a touch of sweat and dust from the road, and below that there were hints of honey and lavender, along with something spicy like coriander and peppercorn. Maker, the man smelled impossibly good. Dorian wanted to eat him.

Hands still clenched tight, Dorian glanced away. “I don’t think you should stand so close to me,” he warned. “I’m afraid I might lose control of myself, and neither one of us wants that.”

“Oh!” Alistair exclaimed. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Dorian exhaled deeply as Alistair beat a hasty retreat.

 _A drink,_ Alistair thought. _Perhaps a drink isn’t such a terrible idea, after all._

He’d left the bottle on the little table near the wardrobe. He’d only found the one goblet, so he refilled it for himself. Before he could pick up the goblet, however, he was distracted by the sudden pressure against his back.

When it came to sensing darkspawn, Alistair could pinpoint their presence from up to a league away. However, he hadn’t even heard Dorian rise from his chair and cross the room. Didn’t even realize that he’d moved until he felt the mage’s erection pushing up against his backside through their clothes.

He hadn’t expected that. With a mild curse, Alistair spun about. However, his back was to the table, and Dorian was still practically on top of him, trapping him between a hard place and... well, another hard place.

Dorian’s hands fell to the table at either side of Alistair. His face wanton as he leaned forward, hips undulating as he rubbed his cock against Alistair’s hip.

Alistair froze. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t every day that he had to contend with a man he hardly knew practically humping him like a dog out of the blue. By the time he decided that the best course of action would be to gently pry the mage off him, it was too late. Dorian’s hips jerked up against him, then Dorian stiffened, gasping sharply as he came.

Eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack, as he shuddered through an orgasm, Dorian’s face was beautiful.

_Maker’s breath._

A moment passed, then Dorian’s eyes fluttered open. He met Alistair’s surprised gaze for only a second before his face twisted with mortification, and he immediately averted his eyes, staring down at the floor as his hands squeezed the edge of the table.

“Forgive me,” Dorian said, his voice thick with shame. “I didn’t mean...” He trailed off with a shaky laugh. “This is possibly the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.” Releasing the table, Dorian teetered back a step, still unable to meet Alistair’s eyes. “You should really leave now. Please pretend that this never happened.”

Alistair felt a surge of sympathy for the man from Tevinter. He hated to see another person suffering, and Dorian’s absolute mortification only evoked more pity. Leaving Dorian alone seemed dangerous, but – given Dorian’s state – staying here and playing the role of forbidden fruit seemed cruel. The only kind thing to do would be to take Vivienne’s advice.

Alistair stepped forward. Before Dorian could slink away, Alistair put a hand on Dorian’s shoulder to stop him.

Gray eyes flashed up at him in surprise.

“Let me,” Alistair said, then, without waiting for Dorian’s response, he reached down and deftly popped open the buckle at the front of Dorian’s pants. Dorian’s eyes widened, then sank shut as Alistair’s hand slipped down into his somewhat sticky smalls.

“Fuck,” Dorian murmured as Alistair’s hand curled around his shaft and began to move in long, languid strokes.

Dorian bit back a moan. He was shaking like a leaf. To steady himself, he rested his hands on Alistair’s shoulders. The Warden’s touch was steady and determined, moving smooth and slick over Dorian’s aching cock. In mere moments, Dorian was choking on another curse, his fingers digging into Alistair’s shoulders as he spent himself again, this time in the Warden’s hand.

Dorian took a moment to catch his breath. _Maker, three times..._ and the third had felt just as intense and pleasurable as the first two. Lifting his head, he met Alistair’s pretty hazel eyes. No, Alistair wasn’t pretty... he was _gorgeous._ “You know, I... I wasn’t expecting you to do that.”

Alistair held his gaze. “Did it help?”

Dorian considered how he felt. “A little.”

Alistair became thoughtful. “What do you need, Dorian?”

This gorgeous man saying his name, and asking that question – it was enough to cause Dorian’s entire body to quiver as if he’d been touched. Except it was a question he didn’t want to answer. “What I need doesn’t matter.”

“Dorian,” Alistair said gently, but firmly. “Let me help you.”

A soft, tremulous laugh rattled out of the mage. “You can’t mean that.”

“Why not?”

Was he joking? Dorian laughed weakly again. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Warden, we’re both men.”

A small furrow appeared in Alistair’s brow as he regarded Dorian for a moment. “To be perfectly honest... that’s not what’s bothering me.”

“Oh?” Dorian said, not quite able to mask his surprise. He’d had no idea that the Warden’s tastes were so similar to his own. “Then... what _is_ bothering you?”

Suddenly sheepish, Alistair’s gaze dipped down as he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Well, I... I mean we hardly know each other and sex... it isn’t something I do casually.”

“So, then,” Dorian snapped. “This isn’t something you want. Rather like sacrificing yourself to an archdemon to stop the Blight, is it?”

Dorian immediately regretted those words. But before he could take them back, Alistair’s hand was on his neck, a finger sliding gently along his jaw, causing him to quiver again, as the Warden’s eyes smiled down upon him. “You’re one of the most attractive men I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Alistair said. “You know that, right?” Then he chuckled. “Oh, wait. I forgot who I was talking to. Of course you do.”

Dorian would have basked in the compliment if he weren’t so focused on the utterly distracting and devastating sensation of Alistair’s fingers gliding over his neck. Maker, he _needed_ it so badly. He wanted this man more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life. Even if he hadn’t drunk the magicked wine, it really had been a long time since he’d been touched. And of course he’d noticed how sexy the Warden was and had wondered what it would be like.

And – Alistair had just admitted that he thought Dorian was attractive.

Dorian tossed any remaining scrap of pride he had out the window.

“What I want, Warden,” Dorian breathed, “is for you to fuck me.”

Alistair’s answer was quick and to-the-point. “All right.”

 _Vishante kaffas!_ Dorian felt his knees literally go weak. Did Alistair... did he really just agree to it?

The answer became immediately clear when Alistair’s hands fell upon Dorian’s chest. Long, strong fingers tugged at his straps, unbuckled clasps, and pushed the leather and fabric from his body as the Warden gently nudged up against him, guiding him backwards toward the bed.

Dorian fell back as Alistair pushed him down to the mattress, ablaze with anticipation as Alistair doffed his own shirt in one smooth motion, letting it fall to join Dorian’s on the floor.

Dorian’s eyes drank in the Warden’s smooth expanse of skin, so many muscles rippling. Maker, Alistair really was gorgeous, and so ridiculously hot.

So frazzled were Dorian’s nerves that all he could do was watch as if dumbstruck as Alistair edged closer to the bed, placing one knee upon the mattress. Hefting himself up, he then climbed halfway up over Dorian. Those golden fingers took hold of the waistband of Dorian’s pants, pulling them down far enough so that Dorian’s straining erection popped free.

Without any further ado, Alistair bent his head and took Dorian into his mouth.

 _Fucking Maker._ Half-lost to lust, Dorian could barely think. He was vaguely surprised at how quickly they’d gone from talking to this. Then again, he was deeply grateful that Alistair wasn’t tormenting him with any teasing kisses or drawn-out foreplay. Tonight that was the last thing he wanted. Because of the aphrodisiac, all he wanted was another release.

Alistair’s hands slid up his flanks, then trailed down his stomach as his head bobbed up and down Dorian’s cock, tongue swirling as he lightly sucked. With a groan, Dorian clawed the sheets, hips bucking hard as Alistair’s hot mouth wrenched another bone-rattling orgasm out of him.

As Dorian floated back to his senses, he became aware that Alistair was carefully tugging Dorian’s pants and small clothes down over his hips, then sliding them down Dorian’s legs before discarding the clothing on the floor with the rest. Alistair’s eyes did a slow, appreciate sweep over Dorian’s body before he began to unbuckle his own belt.

If Alistair’s look wasn’t proof enough, there was no denying that Alistair wanted this when he pushed down his pants, revealing his prick, which was fully erect and gloriously thick.

Muscles flexed in his strong thighs as he worked his way out of his pants, discarding those in haste before he leaned down over Dorian.

Dorian gasped at the delightful feel of skin against skin. Gasped again as Alistair’s tongue swept a circle around his nipple. Wove his fingers in Alistair’s hair as the Warden proceeded to suck, then tease with his teeth, first one nipple, then the other.

The need was still there. Except now, as Alistair’s hands swept deliciously all over his body, his soft lips pressing hot kisses as the stubble of his chin scraped across his skin, it felt less pressing. Instead, buzzing with delicious anticipation, the sensation of everything the Warden was doing to him felt so decadently lush. Writhing below Alistair, Dorian was nearly at the peak of ecstasy, when Alistair drew back slightly, a husk in his voice.

“I... do you have something to... make this more... ah...”

Dorian leaned over. Yanked open the drawer of the bedside table, hand scrambling until it fell on the familiar, but long neglected bottle of oil. Plucking it out, he practically shoved it into Alistair’s waiting hands. He no longer cared how desperate he looked, or how lewd as he shamelessly spread his legs in his greedy impatience for Alistair’s cock.

It felt like every internal organ in Dorian’s body was humming with desire as he watched Alistair slicking his fingers with a generous amount of his special oil from Tevinter. Held his breath as Alistair positioned himself between Dorian’s open legs, reaching down.

Alistair’s hand paused before making contact, his eyes seeking Dorian’s. He wondered if the elixir the mage had drunk weren’t actually muddling his mind, taking away the possibility of consent. “Dorian? What we’re doing... would you want this? Even if you were... unaffected?”

Dorian stared at him unblinkingly for a moment. Every nerve in his body was screaming for _more, more, more –_ for Alistair to hurry up and get on with it. _Talking_ was the last thing he wanted. But he understood Alistair’s intent. “I swear,” Dorian managed to wheeze out, “that if I were... normal... I would still want to have sex with you.”

The lines of worry in Alistair’s brow smoothed out. Reassured, he pressed a soft kiss to the inside of Dorian’s strong, sleek thigh as he found Dorian’s entrance, then slowly wormed a finger in.

Suddenly, Dorian’s mind went blank.

For a few minutes, Dorian was nothing more than his body – a raging bonfire that roared, crackling and snapping as Alistair’s lips brushed across his skin, palm pressed up between Dorian’s thighs as he continued to finger Dorian’s hot and eager hole. At any moment now, he was going to explode in a fiery inferno, leaving nothing behind but ash.

“Alistair... please...” Dorian pleaded as his hands gripped the sheets again. “Maker, I can’t wait any more.”

Maker, he was certain he was going to die, consumed by his own hunger. He whimpered in gratitude as Alistair shifted between his legs, spreading them wider before he lined himself up.

There was only a fleeting moment of resistance as Alistair started to enter. Then Dorian’s breath caught as Alistair, in one easy movement, slid all the way in.

It was more than Dorian could handle. Alistair’s thrust slammed another mind-obliterating orgasm right out of him, made him keen as his cock throbbed rhythmically against Alistair’s hard stomach.

_Oh fuck fuck Maker fuck!_

Once again, it Dorian a moment to float back from the peak of his bliss. With some dismay he realized that his erection still hadn’t diminished, and felt as demanding as ever. But it was with some pleasure that he realized that Alistair was poised very still above him, his hard cock deep in Dorian’s ass, waiting.

“Shall I keep going?” Alistair asked.

 _“Kaffas,”_ Dorian muttered. “If you stop, I will set you on fire.”

A playful smile graced Alistair’s beautiful lips. “I think you’ll set me on fire if I keep going.”

 _Maker, this man is such a dork,_ Dorian thought.

Alistair leaned down, capturing Dorian’s mouth in a luscious, passion-drenched kiss. As Dorian parted his lips to invite in the Warden’s tongue, Alistair began to thrust inside him.

Maker, he was melting. Dorian threw his arms around Alistair’s neck, clinging to him as Alistair’s tongue continued to play over his as he rocked gracefully into Dorian, filling the mage with almost unbearable delight. Pleasuring Dorian over and over, deep into the night.

Several hours later, Dorian lay next to Alistair, more sated and relaxed than he’d ever felt before in his life. As he drifted off, he had a thought that made him chuckle.

The stories about the Grey Wardens’ stamina? All true.

***

Late morning light was filtering through the curtains when Dorian finally woke.

He was lying in his bed. It was rather small for two, which might explain why he and Alistair had been sleeping with their bodies pressed together in a cozy tangle of limbs. He took a quick mental inventory. The potion had worn off; he felt normal. As for being in Alistair’s arms... well, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d woken up with someone else, so it felt rather nice.

Dorian remained still for a while, his eyes tracing over every perfect line of the Warden’s sleeping face. Eventually, Alistair stirred, then opened his eyes. Met Dorian’s gaze for a moment. Then spoke, his voice half-slurred from sleep. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, back to myself,” Dorian said. “It’s quite a relief, actually.”

Alistair continued to look into his eyes for a moment. Then he hummed.

Dorian wondered what that sound _meant_. In truth, he had no idea what Alistair was thinking, or how he felt about having spent half the night trying to satisfy Dorian’s magically-induced lust. He’d certainly made it clear that the potion was the only reason they’d had sex. Dorian didn’t know what would happen next, though if Alistair jumped up and fled his bed, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

Yet Alistair was still lying here, looking at him. Then, out of the blue, with the utmost seriousness, he asked, “Do you like cheese?”

“Do I...?” Dorian began. Then he laughed. “Nothing wrong with a nice Roquefort.”

Alistair grinned. “Your taste is commendable.”

Dorian tried to smile back. He felt so comfortable waking up in Alistair’s arms that it was making him feel – ironically – uncomfortable. “About last night,” he said. “What happened... we’ll keep it just between us, yes?”

Alistair’s expression changed into something... odd. Then he smiled again, except that this time it didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course,” he said. Then he disentangled himself from Dorian’s limbs, climbing carefully out of the bed. Once he’d scooped his clothes off the floor, he began to dress.

Dorian sat up in the bed, feeling strangely uncertain. Had he said something wrong? The way Alistair’s demeanor had changed suggested that he had. But last night hadn’t meant anything – it had been just a pity fuck. Hadn’t it?

As Alistair finished by straightening his shirt, he glanced at Dorian. “You know... I’m leaving for Weisshaupt this afternoon.”

“You’re not waiting until the Inquisitor returns?”

“The Wardens need guidance. And I did promise the Inquisitor that I would deal with the mess at Adamant as soon as possible, so... I have to go.” Alistair swept his hands over his hair in an attempt to smooth it back into place. Then his gaze fluttered shyly over to Dorian’s. “Would you... want to come with me?”

Dorian blinked. That... he hadn’t expected it. Not at all. He nearly stumbled over his words. “Come with you? To Weisshaupt?” he asked. “I've been to Weisshaupt, you know. It’s not good. Carved into a mountain, cold, dour, everyone so bloody serious they can’t take a piss... I can’t say that I liked it.”

“Ah,” Alistair said. “In that case... forget I asked.”

Dorian froze. Why did Alistair look like a puppy who’d just been kicked? _Shit. Last night he... Maker._ Dorian realized that he’d read that wrong. “I mean _yes.”_

Alistair regarded him curiously.

Dorian cursed himself. Apparently he’d lost all control of his tongue, and was now just blurting out whatever he was thinking. “I mean I want to, but... I can’t. I pledged myself to the Inquisition. I have to stay, at least until Corypheus is stopped.”

Alistair nodded gravely. “Ah, yes. Of course. We all have our obligations.”

Dorian thought. He had the strangest feeling that he was losing something. Something he’d never had. Or at least a _chance_ at something...

“When this is over,” Dorian added, “assuming we all survive, of course – I’ll be going back to Tevinter. Weisshaupt is very close to the Tevinter border. To travel there from Minrathous... well, it wouldn’t be very far.”

“Yes,” Alistair said with a smile, “survival does seem like a reasonable goal. I wish you luck with that. Do write me and let me know how it turns out.”

“Yes,” Dorian said, “I think I shall.”

 


	5. Fenris/Merrill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: FROLIC OR DIE.
> 
> This chapter is for [firedup](http://archiveofourown.org/users/firedup/pseuds/firedup) who said "maybe Merrill tries to drug Hawke with it, who's not at all interested in her, makes her usual mess of it, and it ends up in both her and Fenris' drink."
> 
> Humor/light smut. NSFW.

Merrill slipped the small crystal vial out of its hiding place in the bosom of her jerkin and held it up to the light. The crystal itself was both delicate and elegant, and the liquid within was the color of pink rose petals, and so very... pretty.

On the kitchen counter before her sat five identical glasses of wine.

 _Just slip this into the Champion’s drink,_ the old elven women in the alienage had told her, _and everything will work out._

Merrill uncorked the vial and selected one of the glasses at random.

Still, she hesitated, plagued by sudden doubt. The old woman who had sold her the magical elixir had seemed harmless enough, but what if that had just been an act? What if the woman had been trying to harm the Champion by coercing Merrill into spiking her wine with poison?

Lifting it to her nose, Merrill took a careful sniff. It certainly didn’t smell like poison. In fact, it didn’t really smell like anything. _Odorless... probably tasteless... I hope? Well, I suppose it wouldn’t make sense to slip something into Hawke’s drink if she could taste it. Surely the old woman knew that._

Even so, Merrill was aware that what she was doing was slightly unethical. But Hawke hadn’t understood just how important fixing the mirror was to Merrill, and had refused to come speak to the Keeper on her behalf. Merrill couldn’t do it on her own; she needed Hawke’s help. Which meant that this was the only option left – to slip the potion into the Champion’s drink so that Merrill could then, with the help of magic, sway Hawke into doing her bidding.

 _At least it isn’t blood magic,_ Merrill told herself. No one – including the Champion – liked it when she used blood magic. Determined – and before she lost her nerve – she began pouring the potion into one of the cups.

She was almost immediately interrupted by a voice from just outside the door. “Hey Daisy – you need any help in there?”

Merrill had jumped at the sound of Varric’s voice, and had jerked back her hand, clutching the vial to her chest. Turning towards the doorway, she spoke as calmly as she could manage. “No, no, Varric. I’m quite all right. I told you I didn’t mind pouring the wine. I’ll... I’ll be out in a moment.”

“All right, Daisy,” Varric called back. “Just give us a shout if you need help.”

She hadn’t heard Varric approach, but now she heard the dwarf’s footsteps as he moved away.

 _Creators._ She had almost been caught. She was very grateful that Varric hadn’t actually entered the kitchen, because she didn’t know how she would have explained what she was doing. She also realized that she’d better hurry and finish before Varric came back or someone else walked in.

A quick glance at the vial showed that she still had about half left to pour. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to have spilled any. However, when she reached out to finish pouring, her hand stopped in mid-air.

 _Oh, the Dread Wolf take me!_ She couldn’t remember if she’d poured the first half into the second glass from the right, or the second glass from the left. _Creators, which one is it?_ Panic began to rise as she wracked her brain for the answer.

She was moderately sure it was the one on the right. It was closer to her. Or... maybe it was the one on the left? The more she thought about it, the less certain she became. No, she was pretty sure it was the one on the left. _Fenedhis_ , how was she supposed to choose?

As she fretted, she heard a soft jangle growing louder, along with the sharp click of boots.

Hastily Merrill dumped the last of the vial’s contents into the glass on the left. She’d barely had time to tuck the empty vial away in her bodice when Isabela strutted into the kitchen.

“What’s taking so long, kitten?” Isabela purred. “Everyone is waiting for their drinks.” She smiled at the elf. “Daydreaming about something good, I hope.”

“No, not daydreaming,” Merrill said quickly. “Just pouring the wine. I had some trouble with the cork on the bottle. But everything’s all right.”

“You had trouble getting the cork out? Usually it’s harder getting it _in.”_ Isabela smirked. “Here, I’ll help you. Come on.”

Before Merrill could protest, Isabela had stepped closer, jutting out a hip and knocking the elf out of the way. Smiling, she picked up three of the glasses, then turned, already heading out of the room. Over her shoulder, she called back, “Just grab the last two.”

For a moment Merrill froze as she stared at the remaining two glasses. Either one of them held the potion, or it was in one of the glasses Isabela had taken. But there was no way of knowing. Should she stop the pirate woman? Confess? No, confessing was the last thing she wanted to do. Besides, she reasoned, the worst thing that could happen was that one of her other friends would imbibe the potion and then be susceptible to suggestions for a little while.

Scooping up the remaining two glasses, Merrill trotted after Isabela.

***

They had passed out the wine glasses. Then Isabela had returned to her previous seat under Hawke’s arm on one of the sofas, while Merrill sank primly down in the chair nearest the hearth. Immediately, Isabela proposed a toast. Merrill had no other choice but to take a drink.

She didn’t taste anything. But, of course she wouldn’t if the elixir were tasteless. As Varric launched into a story, Merrill quietly watched everyone for changes in behavior. Surely she would notice something, wouldn’t she?

Varric was animated as usual, waving his arms about as he reached the more exciting portion of his story. Merrill wasn’t quite listening, though she knew it had something to do with deshers – whatever those were. Perhaps it was a dwarf thing? She made herself a mental note to ask Varric later.

Isabela and Hawke were tangled up together on the couch, listening and laughing. Usually they weren’t this affectionate in front of each other in public. On the one hand, it was heart-warming to see two people who were clearly in love. On the other hand, it only reminded Merrill just how alone and lonely she’d been since she’d left her clan.

Fenris was seated in one of the chairs on Varric’s other side, somewhat stiff-backed – as if he were expecting danger at any moment – steadily sipping his wine. He looked dreadfully bored, although his lips did twitch up into a smile when Varric concluded his story with an exuberant, “So the moral of the story is: If at first you don’t succeed, then maybe dragon hunting isn’t for you!”

Hawke – whose main criteria for a good story was that it included dragons – snorted loudly in appreciation.

Still chuckling, Isabela encouraged everyone to drink up. Merrill had little other choice than to drink more. It would look suspicious if she refused.

Merrill still had just under half a glass of wine when she started to feel... _odd._

It began as a warmth in her stomach. Wine usually did make her feel warm, but this sensation was... different. There was something _anticipatory_ about it. She could gradually spreading throughout her body, uncurling in her blood, and pooling down in-between her thighs. And in her chest, her heart began to beat a little faster. For a moment, she puzzled over this. Had she taken the glass with the elixir in it? Perhaps that was for the best, then. No one would have to find out, and she was moderately certain that everything would be fine, as long as no one made any outrageous suggestions to her, such as playing strip Wicked Grace or summoning a demon.

Distracted by her thoughts, Merrill had stopped paying attention to the others in the room. But her ears perked up when she heard Hawke’s voice, buzzing with concern.

“Fenris? Are you feeling all right?”

All eyes fell upon him.

Fenris’ expression wasn’t good. He was wearing his usual ‘brooding’ expression, but it was now tinged with discomfort. His chest rose and fell with somewhat rapid and shallow breaths. His fingers tightly clutched at the armrests of his chair. And when he lifted his gaze to them, his eyes were almost black – all pupil except for a thin rim of green iris.

He grimaced as he shifted in the chair. “I feel... strange.”

Hawke was immediately on her feet at Fenris’ side. Fretting, she placed a hand on his forehead, seeking fever. “Strange? Strange how? Do you feel sick? Should be call for Anders?”

A shudder visibly wracked through Fenris’ body as Hawke’s hand swept across his brow. He squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath. Then he snapped at her like an angry dog. “Hawke! Don’t touch me!”

Hawke jerked back, more confused than anything. Fenris didn’t generally didn’t take kindly to being touched, but over the course of their friendship, he’d allowed Hawke to get close to him, and had never minded when she’d shown him a little affection.

“What the fuck, Fenris?” she snapped back. “What is it? Are you in pain?”

Fenris grimaced again. Shifting in the chair, he wrapped his arms about himself, eyes skittering towards the floor. “No... not pain,” he murmured. “Something else...”

Hawke frowned. “Something else...?”

Fenris merely grunted.

Isabela had slipped up off the sofa and now stood next to Hawke. Briefly she considered Fenris. Then a spark of understanding lit up her eyes. Turning around, her eyes first swept over Hawke, then Varric, before settling on Merrill.

Merrill held her breath as Isabela leaned down to look her right in the eyes.

Isabela released a long, heavy sigh. “Oh, kitten,” she murmured. “What have you done?”

All attention was now on Merrill. “Who, me?” Merrill blurted out. “Oh, nothing. I’ve done absolutely nothing. No, no. I certainly didn’t put anything in anyone’s drink because... that would be wrong, wouldn’t it?” As everyone stared harder at Merrill, she realized her blunder. “Oh, Dread Wolf take me. I didn’t mean to say that.”

Hawke’s voice was cold. “Merrill.”

Merrill tried to look apologetic. “I didn’t mean any harm? Really, it’s nothing. Everything will be fine. I think.”

“You _think?”_ Hawke growled. “Merrill, what foolish thing did you do _now?”_

Merrill’s hands fluttered nervously in her lap. “I just... well, you see, Hawke, you wouldn’t help me with the eluvian. So this old elven woman in the alienage sold me a potion and said if I put it in your drink, then it would help me... convince you.” Merrill frowned. “Except that there were too many distractions and I... I lost track of the glass – well, glasses, I suppose – with the potion in it.”

Hawke groaned and rubbed her face with both hands.

Isabela tugged at the scarf over her hair as she studied Fenris for a moment, then turned back to Merrill, placing her hands on her hips. “I hate to break this to you, kitten,” she said. “But that potion you put in the wine? It isn’t what you think it is.”

Merrill blinked up at the pirate woman. “No? Then... what is it?”

Isabela hummed. Somehow, she made even that little noise sound saucy. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before, so... well, I think that old dodger in the alienage sold you a love potion.”

The silence in the room became absolute.

Merrill blinked again. “A... a love potion?”

“Mmm hmm,” Isabela said. “To be specific – Madame Tullerie’s Love Potion #5.”

“Oh, dear,” Merrill murmured breathlessly. “That sounds bad. Is it... is it bad?”

From the other armchair, Fenris made a wheezy sound. “There must be some sort of cure.”

The pirate woman turned, considering the elf. “Oh, there is a cure, sugar, but I don’t think you’re going to like it,” she said. “This particular potion has another name. They call it _Frolic or Die.”_

Everyone – Varric, Hawke, Merrill and Fenris – all stared at her in disbelief.

Then Fenris screeched. “What?”

Isabela’s expression became very grave. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but... if you two don’t frolic, then...” she trailed off, leaving the words unspoken.

“Fucking Maker,” Hawke muttered. Her eyes jumped between her two friends. “Well, don’t just sit there! You need to get going!”

“Fortunately, there are woods just outside of Kirkwall,” Isabela added helpfully.

“The woods!” Fenris exclaimed, looking both enraged and dismayed. “You can’t be serious!”

“Well, you are elves,” Isabela pointed out. “And elves frolic in the woods.”

“Yes, that is true,” Merrill said.

Fenris shot Merrill a glare so fierce that she shrank down in her chair. To the others he just growled. “I do _not_ frolic.”

“Fenris!” Hawke protested. “Stop being so damn stubborn. I don’t want you to die.”

Fenris glared back at her. Then, defeated, he hung his head.

A few minutes later, Hawke, Varric and Isabela had ushered the pair through the house and out the door. Closing the door, Hawke leaned back against it with a sigh.

Varric raised an eyebrow at Isabela. “ _Frolic or Die,_ Rivaini? I think you made that up.”

Isabela grinned devilishly. “Yes, but they’ll figure out what it really is on their own soon enough.”

***

True to his nature, Fenris brooded on the long walk out of town.

 _This_ brooding wasn’t like his normal brooding. _That_ brooding was a vaguely-pissed-off-at-the-world-especially-mages-and-slavers sort of brooding. This, on the other hand, was more of the unhappy-but-also-really-horny sort of brooding.

He didn’t like it. He recognized it, though. One night, he’d been drinking at his mansion and flirting with Hawke. At some point, both Marian and Isabela had decided that they both ought to flirt with him. It was perfectly harmless – they both knew that he’d never had anything resembling a healthy relationship with anyone, and apparently thought it a good idea to give Fenris a chance to practice flirting with women in a safe environment. Except that on that night, he’d perhaps had just a little too much to drink, and he’d really started to wonder what it would be like. To allow someone to get that close to him. To take pleasure in sex like a normal person. By the time Hawke went home, Fenris was left sad, lonely, and aroused.

Now, though, he realized that had been nothing. Now he was more miserable and agitated than he’d ever been since he’d escaped from Tevinter. Why had he even agreed to this?

Worse, he was just following along behind Merrill, letting her lead the way. He didn’t even like her. She was a _blood mage._ Although, to be fair, in Fenris’ mind, Merrill, being the naïve and bumbling waif she was, was far less dangerous than Anders, who didn’t even use blood magic. He didn’t trust the Dalish girl, but, in truth, she was hard to actually _hate._

“Well, we’re here,” Merrill announced, making an effort to sound chipper, but the quake in her voice betrayed her fear. “Should we begin? With the frolicking, I mean.”

Fenris’ eyes quickly scanned the environs. Trees, grass, flowers. Nothing lurking in the shadows. There was a light breeze, and everything smelled sweetly earthy and damp. It was a perfect summer night – which he might have enjoyed if he were alone. Except he wasn’t. He swung his gaze sharply back to the other elf. “We aren’t actually going to do this.”

Merrill’s eyes widened. “We must! You heard what the others said – we could die.”

Fenris’ ears twitched. He felt even more miserable, and worse – the rod of steel in his pants was becoming increasingly distracting. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Just tell me what to do.”

“You’ve really never frolicked before?” Merrill asked. Fenris’ glare gave her the answer. “Well... we could dance. Under the moonlight. With joy. That would be a very good start. And... there are enough flowers so we could make a daisy chain... a crown of flowers...” Merrill trailed off as Fenris’ gaze continued to sear into her. The way he was looking at her made her feel warm and tingly all over. And – why hadn’t she noticed how handsome he was before? “Oh! You’d look so pretty with flowers in your hair. Maybe lilies....?”

Merrill trailed off again at Fenris’ expression. His scowl could have murdered a nug in its tracks.

“I... did I say something wrong?”

 _Pretty!_ Fenris huffed out an exasperated sigh. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“All right,” Merrill agreed quickly. “Then... we’ll start with the dancing?” When Fenris grunted, she took that as a sign of agreement. “Well. I guess we should begin. I’ll go first.”

For a moment Fenris watched as Merrill began to dance. He couldn’t help but think how ridiculous this was. There wasn’t any music. And he’d never heard of any such magic that could be dispelled by dancing. Except he also couldn’t help but notice how gracefully Merrill moved – her arms swept elegantly through the air, as her small feet hopped lightly over the ground.

Fenris didn’t dance. But he made an effort to mimic her movements.

Bubbles of laughter erupted from Merrill’s throat. As Fenris’ gaze snapped to her, she quickly raised a hand to her mouth as if to prevent the sound from escaping. He realized that the mage was laughing at _him._

A white-hot spark of anger flared inside him. How fucking dare she laugh at him? It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know how to dance – no one had ever thought to teach him. Whirling, Fenris stomped straight up to Merrill until he was only a handspan away from her face, spittle flying as he barked at her. “SHUT UP.”

Merrill’s eyes widened in surprise. No longer laughing, she lowered her hand as she stared at Fenris.

The warrior stared back. His eyes roamed across the now-familiar vallaslin on her face. His gaze trailed down her cheek, only to trip up on her lips. For a moment, as his heart continued to beat too quickly, Fenris stared at Merill’s lips.

In fact, his heart beat a fraction faster as Merrill’s tongue slipped out to wet them. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Maker, why was he so fascinated by her lips? They were a light shade of pink, wet now, and so soft-looking. Briefly he wondered how they would feel wrapped around his –

_KAFFAS!_

At that moment, Merrill leaned forward impulsively, closing the small gap between them. Warm was her mouth as it came into contact with his. It was the barest of touches, just the soft brush of her lips against his, but it caused a wave of pleasure to wash through Fenris’ body, stiffening his spine and curling his toes into the loose dirt below his feet.

Almost immediately, Merrill jerked back, her eyes wide again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she blurted out, as her hands nervously twisted over each other. “I don’t know what came over me! Really, Merrill, why don’t you think! I... I would completely understand if you want to kill me now. Stuff my body into an old tree trunk and just leave it or –”

Her words barely registered. He was too caught up in his own thoughts. Merrill had just _kissed_ him. And strangely, he had _liked_ it. More than liked it, it had had ignited something within him that was hungry, primal. He moved on instinct.

Merrill yelped as Fenris pounced on her. Lyrium flared below his skin as he almost gracefully lowered her down to the ground, crushing the delicate white petals of the flowers below their bodies.

Merrill blinked, trying to figure out how she had ended up lying on her back on the ground, with Fenris crouched over her, practically devouring her with his eyes as he removed first one of his gauntlets, then the other. He reminded her of a half-starved wolf that had just cornered a hare.

Wait – did that mean that she was the hare?

_Oh!_

All of a sudden, her favorite curse – _Dread Wolf take me!_ – now had an entirely new meaning.

Gauntlets tossed aside, Fenris leaned down over her, one hand on either of her shoulders, practically pinning her to the ground. Flames blazed in his eyes, and his voice was even deeper and huskier than normal, sending a small shiver of delight up her spine. “Merrill...” he rasped. “If you don’t want this, then... _fight me off.”_

 _Oh, Creators._ She did want this. How long had it been since she’d had this sort of intimacy? Or any sort of intimacy? She hadn’t even been _touched_ in years. And the way Fenris’ gorgeous green eyes were eating her up was enough to stoke the fire that had been steadily burning between her legs since they’d left Hawke’s.

Fenris took her silence as agreement.

Suddenly they were tugging at each others’ clothing with rough hands. Shaking fingers fumbled with laces and buttons. In a moment Fenris’ tunic was lying discarded on the grass as the elf’s lyrium-scarred fingers unwound the cowl about her neck and unbuckled her belt before tugging the long green tunic she wore up and over her head. With a hasty gesture, Fenris tossed the garment aside.

And then froze.

The small, rational part of his mind was still trying to fight against his body’s baser desires. Was he really going to have sex? In the woods? With _Merrill?_

Merrill stared at Fenris. She’d never seen this much of his lyrium markings before. They swirled up over his arms, curling around his biceps, across his taut, muscular shoulders, and down the hard planes of his chest and his stomach to disappear below his dark pants. Pants that were so tight, Merrill could clearly make out the shape of Fenris’ hard cock straining against the thin fabric.

 _Creators._ Just the sight of it flooded her body with lust.

As Merrill’s slender hand stretched out and stroked up his length through his breeches, any thoughts of resistance Fenris had vanished in an instant.

With a growl, Fenris seized hold of the waistband of Merrill’s leggings. Once he’d tugged them down along with her small clothes, Merrill helped by kicking the rest of them off her ankles. In another moment, Fenris had jerked off his own breeches.

He didn’t wear small clothes. Merrill’s eyes widened and another flood of lust crashed through her as Fenris took his cock in hand and gave it a few steady, practiced strokes.

Then Fenris’ hands were on her knees, pushing her legs open. Shifting, he knelt between them before he lowered himself down.

He’d never had sex with a woman before. But he could feel the wet heat of her. Sliding his cock down, he nudged up against her slick flesh until he found her entrance. He caught his breath as the tip of his cock sank readily into her. Then with an instinctive, swift thrust of his hips, he plunged all the way in.

Merrill made a noise that was nearly a squeal. _Fenedhis,_ she’d never experienced anything as wickedly exquisite as the sensation of Fenris inside her. At least until he began to move. His fingers clenched the dirt, his expression intense and almost pained as he snapped his hips, pulling out before plunging back into her.

Each lurch of his hips drove Merrill closer to the edge of an orgasm. He thrust twice, then twice more. Each one slammed a small _oh!_ of delight past her lips. The fifth thrust sent her spinning wildly over the edge into an ocean of orgasmic bliss.

Back arching, Merrill’s fingernails dug into Fenris’ shoulders as she rode the waves of pleasure. So intense was the sensation, she was almost unaware of the choked cry Fenris made as he buried himself deep within her, cock throbbing fiercely as he reached his own peak.

It seemed like an eternity passed before Merrill came back to her senses. Only to find that Fenris was partially collapsed on top of her, half-holding himself up on his forearms. She felt his breath, heavy and hot against her neck. The length of his body was warm and solid against hers. She could feel the tantalizing pressure of his chest where it brushed up against her breasts, and inside her she could feel his cock, still hard as stone.

_Creators._

“Fenris?” she ventured. “Do you... do you think you could keep going?”

Fenris lifted his head. In his eyes, the hunger hadn’t diminished. Merrill let out a little squeal of delight as he shifted slightly, grinding against her with his hips.

Moonlight flashed off Fenris’ wicked little smirk.

“Yes,” he growled softly. “I can.”

***

Hawke, Isabela and Varric were sitting around the kitchen table, having their morning coffee, when the doorbell rang.

Normally, Hawke would have let Bodhan answer it, but she’d spent most of her non-sleep time fretting over her friends. Before the elves had shuffled off last night, they had promised to return to Hawke’s mansion once they’d finished their business in the woods.

As Hawke scrambled up and rushed to the door, Varric and Isabela followed close behind her.

At the door, Fenris and Merrill stood, both looking worn out and washed out in the early morning light.

“Thank the Maker you’re both all right,” Hawke gushed. “You are both all right – aren’t you?”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed. His voice was gruff. “Everything is... fine.”

Hawke was relieved that Fenris sounded like his usual grumpy self.

Behind her, she heard Isabela let out a throaty chuckle. “Fenris,” she drawled. “Are those... _flowers_ in your hair?”

“SHUT UP,” Fenris snarled. Then he reached up to pull the flower crown off his head. He tossed it at Hawke, who deftly caught it. Straightening his back, his eyes jumped between the others. “I am leaving now.”

The remaining foursome watched as Fenris turned and strode off.

Three pairs of eyes turned back to Merrill, who was adjusting her own flower crown with one hand, as a small smile played upon her lips.

Varric crossed his arms as he smiled with wry amusement. “Daisy? Is there something you want to tell us?”

Merrill startled. “Who, me?” she said, as her fingers began to fidget nervously with her cowl. “Oh, I... no. No. Nothing to tell. Just... there was frolicking. That’s all.” She cleared her throat. “I should go home now.”

They watched as Merrill scampered off.

Then Isabela whistled. “Well,” she said. “Looks like someone had the cobwebs cleaned out with the old elven womb broom.”

Hawke quirked an eyebrow and offered her lover a sly smile as Varric rolled his eyes. “In that case... maybe you and I should purchase some of this Love Potion for ourselves.”

 


End file.
